Narrow Boat

NARROW BOAT

“Narrow Boat”

NARROW BOAT

L. T. C. ROLT

ILLUSTRATED BY

D. J.

WATKINS-PITCHFORD

WITH A i<''R:\V'.KD BY

H. J. MASSINGHAM

EYRE Sc spornswooDE
LONDON

Dedicated to the
Vanishing Company of
‘ Number Ones ’

First Published November t044
Reprinted January 10 4 fit

This book is produced in complete vopi/i>rmify with
the authorized economy standards and is printed
in Great Sritain for Fyrc Spottiswiunii* i^Publisfwrsy^
JJmited^ 15 Bedford Street, London, W,C, 2

CONTENTS

PART 1

CHAP. )PA(*.K

I. INTRODUCTION TO THE CANALS 11

II. TO BANBURY CROSS 17

III. THE BOATBUILDERS 21

IV. FITITNO OUT 27

V. THE BEOBLE OB THE BOATS 32

VI. BELLS AND BEER 38

VII. FOUR HOUSI'S 42

VIII. THE UBBER AVON 45

PART 2

IX. BANBURY TO BRAUNSTON 53

X. THE GRAND UNION CANAL 63

XI. THE ‘LEICRSTER CUT’ 68

XH. INTERLUDIi AT MARKET HARBOROUGII 76

xni. lhcbster 79

XIV. COSSINOTON AND BARROW-ON-SOAR 84

XV. THE BELLFOUNDERS 87

XVI. DOWN TO THE TRENT 90

XVII. SINGING SHARDLOW AND STORM AT FINDERN 95

XVin. THE BRLWf.RS 100

XIX. HORNmOIX>W TO HAYWOOD 103

XX. YOCKERTON HALL 112

XXL TRENTHAM AND THE roTTBRIES 115

XXll. INDUSTRIAL LANIXSCAPE 121

XXIU. HARHCASTLE TUNNEIJI 126

XXIV. THE VALE ROYAL 130

XXV. CHURCH MLNSHULl. 133

vi

CONTENTS

PART 3

CHAP.

XXVI.

NANTWICH

rA<.r

138

XXVII.

INTO SHROPSHIRE

145

XXVIII.

‘ DIRTY FAIR ’

149

XXIX.

CHESWARDINE WHARF

152

XXX.

NORBURY, NEWPORT AND ‘ CUT END ’

157

XXXI.

‘ THE STOUR CUT ’

162

xxxn.

LICHFIELD AND THE COVENTRY CANAL

169

xxxm.

THE OXFORD CANAL AGAIN

177

xxxtv.

FROST

183

XXXV,

SPRING AT HAMPTON GAY

189

CONCLUSION

193

CABIN PLAN OF ‘ CRESSY *

196

APPENDIX

197

GLOSSARY

201

INDEX OF PLACES MENTIONED

209

»

FOREWORD

BY H. J. MASSINGHAM

I RiiCEiVhD the manuscript of this book before I knew the author
personally and before it had been accepted by a publisher. It had
been going the weary round of the publishing houses like countless
hungry tramps before it. And what optical derangement, I should
like to know, has befallen those publishers who refused it that they
could not see a prince among books underneath the rags of its
begging mission? For consider its qualifications. It is the record
of a voyage along 400 miles of the intricate canal-system of the
Midlands, and this alone entitles it to special consideration as the
survey of a countryside of uncharted home-waters less familiar
than the Solomon Islands. With the exception of a pleasant
volume by Temple Thurston {The Flower of Gloster) and the purely
technical Bradshaw's Guide to the Canals and Navigable Rivers of
England and Wales, by R. dc Sails, this source of rural literature is
quite untapped. Moreover, these canals arc falling so rapidly into
disuse, partly by underhanded sabotage and partly as an extreme
example of rural dereliction as a whole, that a merely geographical
account of them alone would have filled up an important gap in
our knowledge of our own country.

Mr. Rolt brings to his task a complex equipment that goes far
beyond the bare essential of knowing his job. Before he bought
the “Cressy”, an old horse-drawn barge, and made a permanent
home of it for himself and his wife, he had been making himself
acquainted with the traditional civilization of the boatmen for a
period of ten years. Add to this his further cxjicrionce among the
network of half-abandoned waterways within the inverted triangle
of Derby and Middlewieh as the two points of its base and Oxford
as the apex. To this he brings a profound historic, tc^pographical
and general interest not only in the canals themselves but in the
vestiges of the rural culture directly or indirectly connected with
them beside their banks. He is thus offering to the reader a some-
thing unique in the rich modern literature of our native country-
side. Two further points. Mr. Rolt is by profession an engineer.
As any reader will see for himself, this advantage has given him
peculiar faeilllicK in intimately describing the structuml meanings

FOREWORD

viii

not only of the canal-system itself and of the crafts associated witir
it, but of such manufacturing regions as the Potteries through
which he passed. When he bought “Cressy”, he refitted it himself
in the boat-building yard at Banbury, and this has been of the
utmost service to him (and so will be to his readers) in interpreJhig
the innermost details of boat-craftsmanship. As 1 have myself eaten
meals in the fore-cabin of the “Cressy”, slept in the state-room
and examined all the fittings and the gipsy-like decorations that
are an integral part of the almost lost culture of the boatmen, I can
personally testify to his mastery of the theme he presents to us in
this book. Lastly, he possesses the first and last qnr.liik-ation of
the author: he knows how to write. Consiilering that this is the
first book he has written, I was myself agreeably surprised, when
I first read the manuscript, at the depth of his sympathies, the
quality of his insight and the maturity of his style.

The mystery remains : what on earth was a publisher doing, turn-
ing down a book like this? Mr. Rolt has a purpose in it further
than that of introducing his readers to the placid v\ateru a\ s i>f the
Midlands and the serene and individual lives of the watermen. The
culture of the canals is a distinctive section (if the English tradition.
Though it was the latest to flower out of what seemed an inex-
haustible fertility, it has handed on the great inheritance in a more
compact form than it would be easy to find elsewhere. It is
perishing from the brutal impact of modern industfiaU.sm a.s all
our traditions are perishing or so threatened. It has been Mr.
Rolfs object to show that something much more than an out-
moded method of transport is going with it, namely a way of life
and its creative qualities that did literally make the linglaml of the
spirit. Nothing but a mere mechanism is being substituted for it.
The spirit is irnmortal and cannot altogether die. But it can be
diverted from its normal and particular channels of e\pi\ ssii>ii,
that is to say from “the good life”, into a mock-modc of being
that is destructive and catastrophic because it is unnatural to it.
To regard Mr. Rolfs book as nostalgic is, therefore, wholly to
misinterpret it. He is pleading for something that Is part of the
soul of England.

September, 1944.

“ I shall desire and I shall find
The best of my desires ;

The Autumn road, the mellow wind
That soothes the darkening shires,

And laughter, and inn-firOvS.

“ White mist about the black hedgerows.
The slumbering Midland plain.
The silence where the clover grows.
And the dead leaves in the lane.
Certainly, these remain.”

RlIPKRr BROOKE.

Grateful acknowledgements are due to Messrs. Sidgwick
and Jackson for permission to quote the above stanzas
from a poem by Rupert Brooke ; and to Messrs, Methuen
and the Executors of the late Sir Arthur Quiller-C ouch for
part of the latter^s poem “ Upon Eckington Bridge

AMMdef/uld Canal
a 1 jt ^PiBswfi^^2«t/iori

'Mttalm. aSri^Tr _

«rfe 4 ,

wmmm

wmmjamt

rnmumTi

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J JiCeasiniifttii

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fica^ton VeUt i

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i«!!W

PART I

Chapter /

INTRODUCTION TO THE CANALS

Most people know no more of the canals than they do of the old
green roads which the pack-horse trains once travelled. Of all the
authors who have written of llicir journc>in«s about England, only
Mr. Temple Thurston chose to travel by water, and his delightful
book ‘The I'lower of Gloster’, published nearly thirty years ago,
stands on the one small shelf in my library which is sufficient to
contain all that has been written about the canals. For they have
lapsed into the neglected obscurity which overhx^k the turnpikes
when the railway deposed the stage-coach and ruined the great
po-sting-lutuscs along Watling Street and the North Road. Now
the motor-car has brought the road into its own again, but the
canals have withdrawn still farther into the shado\v.s. Knowledge
of them is confined to the narrow huinp-backcd bridges which
trap the incautious motorist, or to an occasional i.'Hmp.se from the
train of a ribbon of still water winding through the meadows to
some unknown destination.

I was equally ignorant myself until, ten years ago, a relative of
mine pureliased *(.'rcsNy’, an old horse-drawn barge, installed an
engine, and converted her into a ‘pleasure boat’. I was fortunate
enough to be a member of the crew on her maiden voyage, and

11

NARROW BOAT

12

there and then acquired a passion for canal travel which has in-
creased with the passing of years. It seemed to me to fulfil in the
fullest sense the meaning of travel as opposed to a mere blind
hurrying from place to place, and I felt certain that there could be
no better way of approaching what is left to us of that older
England of tradition which is fast disappearing.

To step down from some busy thoroughfare on to flic quiet
tow-path of a canal, even in the heart of a town, is to step backward
a hundred years or more and to see things in a different, and per-
haps more balanced perspective. The rush of traffic on the road
above seems to become the purposeless scurryinj* of an over-
turned anthill beside the unruffled calm of the water, which even
the slow passage of the boats does not disturb.

Because they have been outpaced and forgotten in the licadlong
flight of modern progress, many old traditions and customs survive
on the canals. Their people are still a highly individual cotmiuinify
who have so far escaped the levelling influence of standardised
urban thought and education. They rarely marry ‘off the land’,
for they have a strong clannish pride, and the boatman’s roving
life allows him little time for courtship. Moreover, few girls not
bom in a boat cabin can stand the hard conditions of cramficd
quarters and exposure to all weathers. On still .summer days this
peaceful gliding through the green heart of the country may seem
idyllic, but it is a different tale to stand for hours at the tiller or
work a boat through endless locks when cold winter rains come
sheeting down, or when a bitter north-easter numbs the fingers,
ruffles the water into little breaking waves and makes locksidcs
treacherous with ice.

Few boatmen can either read or write, and, like many country
folk, they often appear surly and taciturn to strangers from the
towns. But beneath this natural reserve there shines a bright in-
telligence whose great charm lies in the fact that it has not been
acquired from Council schools and newspapers, but is in part
traditional and in part evolved during many .slow jourucying,s wiilj
only heron and plover for company. Their inborn gipsy iosc ..f
colour and polished metal finds expression in the gaily painted
cabms of their boats and in the wealth of glittering bras.s orna-
ments which adorn them. These gay, vividly contrasting cohnns
have become as naturally a part of the canal scene as tlic brig!»t
pli^ge of the kmgfisher, because they are the product of an
artistic mstinct which is entirely unselfconscious.

INTRODUCTION TO THE CANALS 13

The canals have their own inns and their own shops, and because
they follow their own independent, tortuous routes about England,
often seeming purposely to avoid towns, the places whose names
are household words to the boatman mean nothing to the lands-
man. And what attractive names they arc! Cowroast, last of the
fifty-seven locks by which the Grand Union Canal climbs out of
London over the Chiltern ridge; Stoke Brucrne, a canal village by
the southern portal of Blisworth Tunnel in Northamptonshire;
Great Haywood in Staffordshire, where the canal from the Severn
meets the Grand Trunk waterway from east to west. Cowroast is
only a cottage by a lock, and the other two arc quiet villages, yet
their names arc as significant to the boatman as arc those of
Crewe or Swindon to the niilwayman.

As one would expect, such an exclusive community possesses a
traditional language of its own. For instance, there is no ‘port’ or
‘starboard’ on the canal, the boat captain calling to the ‘stccrer’,
‘Hold in!’ (/.<»., towards the towing path) or ‘Hold out!’ The canal
itself is invariably referred to as the ‘cut’, owing to its artificial
character as distinct from the natural channel of a river, while
‘Cressy’, the craft which gave me my first experience of canal
travel, was not, in correct parlance, a barge at all, but a ‘narrow
boat’, built to pass the locks of ‘narrow cuts’. To become still more
technical, she was a ‘Shroppie fly-boat’, which, being interpreted,
means that she was built by the Shropsliire Union Canal Ccmipany,
and worked for them ‘fly’— that is, she travelled night and day,
using relays of horses, like the old fliers of the roads. For this
reason she was .‘iliglilly finer build than the slower craft, being
intended for lighter and more perishable cargoes.

When the Shropshire Union Company ceased carrying with
their own boats, ‘Cressy’ was sold to a miller at Maesbury on the
Welsh Canal, for whom she carried coal until she changed hands
once more and was converted.

For ten years I kept track of her vagrant wanderings about
England, for I had made a resolve that one day I would acquire,
if not ‘Cressy’ herself, then a boat like her, and use her not merely
as a holiday craft, but as a pt'rmancnl home. 1 felt exmvineed that
it would be possible to live both comfortably and ecommiieally in
the space available.

During this long period of waiting I snatched a few all-too-
brief trips aboard her, walked many miles along canal towing-paths,
and spent long winter evenings planning the arrangements of a

14 NARROW BOAT

floating home down to the smallest detail. A large-soak' map of
the canal system hung on the wall of my bedroom, and I would
lie abed planning imaginary journeys,

I had also acquired a second-hand copy of a book which is
indispensable to any canal traveller, ‘Bradshaw's Guide to the
Canals and Navigable Rivers of England and Wales’, by the late
Mr. Rodolph de SaUs. This may sound dry reading, but I pored
over it by the hour. Perhaps it was the names which appoarot! in
the distance tables which fascinated me most and made the pages
live. Sheepwash Staunch, Maids Moreton Mill and W'dlnlotlo;
Honeystreet, Rushey Lock, Freewarrens and Stoke Bardolph;
Foxhangers, Sexton’s Lode, OfTord D’Arcy and Witliybcd Green—
these names had for me the power of poetry to conjure beauty in
my imagin ation. Others stirred me no less by their oddity : Bumble-
hole Bridge, Popes Comer and Nip Square; Plucks Gutter, Stew-
poney Wharf and Blunder Lock; Old Man’s Footbriilgc and
Guthram Gout; Baitsbite Sluice, Dog-in-a-Doublct, Twentypence
Ferry and Totterdown. What a wealth of history and legend spoke
here and clamoured to be explored! Honeystreet and Waluhnlc
had all the languorous scents and sounds of summer in them, while
surely foxes barked in the dark coverts of Foxhangers under the
harvest moon. Did fishermen flock to Baitsbite Sluice? Who was
Guthram, and did they brew strong ale at TotfenlovMi? I was
resolved to find out.

Meanwhile each year brought tidings of declining canal traflic,
of once-thriving waterways becoming choked with weals and nuul
and, worse still, of some closed forever. Maesbury Mill closed
down, and the little boatyard at Frankton on the Welsh Marches,
where ‘Cressy’ was converted, soon followed. It was a significant
comment on the times that the boat-builder went to work as a
carpenter at a nearby aerodrome on what, a year or two before,
had been open fields.

Nejrt came the news of a ‘burst’. Part of the canal b;ink blew out
on the western section of the Welsh Canal just lu-iow if,s innciit>ii
with the arm that runs north to Llangollen over I'cllord’s I'u a?
aqueducts at Ohirk and Pont-Cysyllte. It was not a seri<»us matter,
for canal lengthmen have since told me that it would have taken
only a few days* work to restore the canal to navigable condition,
but this was not to be. For the Railway Company it was a wel-
come pretext to abandon a liability, and so thirty-five miles of
canal up the lovely valley of the Severn between the Long Mynd

INTRODUCTION TO THE CANALS

15

and the Mountains of Montgomery as far as Newton was left to
fall to ruin. One horse-boat, trading to Welshpool with coal, was
caught on the wrong side of the breach, and there, presumably,
she will lie until her gay paintwork is weathered away and her
timbers rot, for there is no way out.

In a few years the Welsh Canal will doubtless become no more
than a dry ditch, like the old Wilts and Berks Canal or the water-
way connecting the Thames with the Severn, which look as
though they had lain idle for a century, although there arc boat-
men still living who have worked over them.

There is something indescribably forlorn about these abandoned
waterways; like old ruined houses or silent mills, they are haunted
by the bygone life and toil which has left its deathless, eloquent
mark upon them. Just as in old houses the worn stone steps arc
the memorial of many vanished feet, so on the canals it is the
grooves worn by the lowing-Hncs in the rotting wooden lockbeams
or the crumbling brickwork of bridges that bring the past to life.

Most beautiful and most tragic of all is the old Thames and
Severn Canal, climbing up the Golden Valley between great hills
that wear their beechwoods like a mane. At the summit at Sapper-
ton it pierces the spine of the Cotswold scarp by a tunnel two and
a quarter miles in length, and thereafter winds across the open
wolds to join the young Thames at Inglcslnim above Lechlade. At
Daneway, a tiny village clinging to the steep slope by the western
portal of the tunnel, there is an old inn of Cotswold stone where
they still remember the boats. The wide windows under their
carved drip-stones have seen them moored in what is now a grassy
hollow, and they have watched the smoke of cabin fires soar up-
ward on still evenings against the dark background of the hanging
beechwoods. The ‘Flower of Gloster’ was one of the last boats to
travel from the Severn to the Thames by this route, and I shall
never cca.se t o envy M r. Temple Thurston his good fortune. Perhaps
it is because I have a particular regard for the Cotswold country
that I regret most the passing of this, the only r«)lswold omal.

These wateiways were gone, but how many more would fall to
ruin before I got my boat? I knew of two that were in danger : the
Kennct and Avon Canal from Reading, which crosses the Wiltshire
downs to Bath, and the Stratford-on-Avon Canal, which joins the
Avon ai Stratford by way of I.owson Ford and Preston Bagot in
Arden. If I did not take to the water soon, these, and perhaps
many more, might be lost to me.

16

NARROW BOAT

Then I was lucky enough to meet a companion who found the
prospect of a roving life on a canal boat equally attractive. What
were the alternatives? An unsettled c.sistciKv in some urban flat,
or the uneasy isolation of a country cottage menaced by the ever-
present threats of new aerodromes, by-pass roads or ‘desirable'
Wding sites. These prospects did not please us, and we resolved
to find a suitable boat and get married the following year.

I knew that ‘Cressy’ had been laid up for some time past at a
boatyard on the Oxford Canal at Banburj’, so I went over and saw
her. Her cabin-work stood in need of repair and she badly wanted
repainting, but her hull was still sound, so I took the plunge
and bougk her. She had been fitted out as a holiday craft to
accommodate a party of eight, and my biggest job would be to
convert her interior into comfortable pcrnianenl qiiaitcrs for a
crew of two. An engineer by profession, 1 knew not the first thing
about carpentry, but I determined to tackle this job myself, not
only to ease the strain on my slender rest>urccs, but to obtain that
added satisfaction which only one’s own handiwork can give.

Thus it came about that ten years of waiting and planning came
to an end one April day when I loaded my old car with luggage,
blankets and provisions and headed for Banbury. At last I was
the captain of the ‘Cressy’, and I could hardly believe my good
fortune.

The Boatyard, Banbury

Chapter II
TO BANBURY CROSS

It was a sunny, boisterous day, and my road lay over the northern
Cotswolds. Most motorists choose the tarmac highway which
scorns the villages and cuts straight across the bare uplands through
Stow-on-the-WoId and Chipping Norton. This is the route indi-
cated by those motoring maps which depict the face of England
covered by a network of thick red lines as ugly as the roads them-
selves. They are a useful diagram of roads to be avoided, but that
is all. My guide has always been the inch-to-thc-mile Ordnance
Survey Map, which is a mine of information about the country,
and the unfailing philosopher and friend of the true Iravollcr.

The route I had chosen took me straight and steeply on to the
hills above Winchcombe by way of Sudeley, and from their lof^
summit the old town appeared as a small cluster of smoke-
shrouded grey roofs sheltering under the great shoulders of Lang-
ley and Cleeve Common. This brought me to the old hill road to
Campden, which follows the majestic, wave-like lift and fall of the
Wolds by Lyncs Barn and Stumps Cross. It was the turn of the
year, and although the wind which swept across these great up-
lands had not yet lost its winter keenness, the sun shone with a
brave new warmth. Buds, though unbroken, had already softened
the starkness of trees and hedgerows, so that as I dropped down
into Canipdcn they gave to the view across the Vale of the Red
Horse that particular misty quality which is so characteristic of
early spring.

There is a great charm about the broken country between Camp-
» 17

NARROW BOAT

18

den and Banbury. The lias of the Warwickshire Plain thrusts a
deep bay between the northernmost outposts of Cotswold and the
Edge Hills, where the limestone appears once more, but of that
more ochreous hue which is due to the presence of iron. The little
towns and villages along the road faithfully reflect the swift transi-
tion from one geological district to another because they arc old,
and therefore true to local tradition and environment. Thus the
grey houses of Campden, with their roofs of stone slats from the
hill quars, are as much a part of the Cotswolds as the hills them-
selves, while Shipston-on-Stour, seven miles on, is built of that
rose-red brick which is so much in harmony with the softer land-
scape of the vale. The villages of Upper and Lower Brailcs, though
under the shadow of the hills, are also of brick, but journey a little
farther and the thatched cottages of SwalclilTe, Tadmarton and
Broughton are all built of the tawny Edge Hill limestone.

After such a journey the outskirts of Banbury were a sorry sight,
for the sturdy stone heart of this old market town by the Chcrwell
is besieged on all sides by semi-detached monstrosities who,se
growth has recently received fresh impetus from new industrial
expansion. Doubtless it is for this reason that Banbury ha.s re-
ceived scant treatment from such authors as have visited her in
search of the ‘picturesque’, for as long ago as 1911 one wrote:
‘There is little of the old aspect of Banbury left now*. Yet the
worth and the character of places cannot always be accurately
judged by first impressions. The beautiful ‘show village’, on
deeper investigation, often turns out to be as lifelm as a stuffed
bird in a museum, the cottages week-end dormitories for jaded
business men, and the great barns riding-schools or Road Houses.
‘All for the eye’, as an old Gloucestershire farmer I know once
said of them, ‘and nothen for the belly’. On the other haml, t»nviis
and villages which have a more workaday appearance often con-
ceal, beneath an exterior that may seem positively drab, a char-
acter and charm which are no less than the old vigorous life of the
place. This was what I discovered in Banbury during my thn»
months stay. Had I only stayed as many weeks 1 might j^ve
missed it.

The Oxford Canal is typically secretive in its passage through
the town, and, although there is a large wharf which handles a sub-
stantial trade in coal, a stranger would have difficulty in finding
any trace of it. Even some of the inhabitants of Banbury seem to
be unaware of its existence, as I discovered later when my state-

TO BANBURY CROSS

19

ment that I was living on a boat was accepted by local tradesmen
as a sally of Munchausen humour. I do not blame them, for I paid
several visits to the boatyard where ‘Cressy’ was moored before T
became certain of finding my way without error. It lay down an
extremely narrow street opening unobtrusively out of a corner of
the Market Square. The name ‘Factory Street’ was almost illegible
with age, and the best elue to its identity was a sign over a small
shop on the corner which proclaimed ‘Tripe, Ox Heels and Neats-
foot Oil for Sale’. The street ended at a wooden drawbridge over
the canal, to the left of which was the boatyard where ‘Cressy’ lay
between two derelict narrow boats.

When I had shipped my belongings aboard 1 hurried back into
the town to obtain the additional stores I needed before the shops
closed: a loaf of bread and a pint of milk ; sausages for supper and
bacon for breakfast; paraffin for the lamps and a sack of coke
from the gasworks for the saloon stove, since the nights were still
cold.

On the opposite side of the drawbridge from the boatyard there
was a lock, and on the lockside stood a toll office. There all the
boats southward bound for Oxford with their cargoes of coal were
checked and gauged. At eight o’clock every week-day evening the
toll clerk locked the bridge in the closed position and svning a
heavy door across the towing path, so that any late-comers had to
tic up until the following morning. There can be no mistaking this
hour of closing, for they still ring the curfew in Banbury. I heard
the measured tolling of the bell very distinctly that evening as I
was cooking my first meal in the galley, for the wind had fallen
with the going down of the sun, and the air was still and very
clear. It struck me as sinplarly appropriate that, on this lane of
still water which was like a road that had fallen asleep, it should
be this tranquil, ancient voice of the town, and not the roar of
traffic, that I should hear.

I had selected the most promising of an elderly and rather
dubious assortment of Li-Lo mattresses and was making my bed
when the creak of tackle and the slow clip-clop of hooves on the
towing-path opposite heralded the arrival of a belated horse-boat.

I looked out The boatman v/as walking beside bis horse, and
when they drew abreast of my window they halted, dim shapes In
the darkness. The tow-line fell slack as the boat, low laden in the
water, slid into view, and the scarcely perceptible ripples round her
bluf bows died as she was checked and drawn into the side.

NARROW BOAT

20

Golden lamplight streaming from the open aft doors of the cabin
illumined the weather-beaten face of the woman at the tiller, and
glinted on her gold earrings. Tliesc were my unknown neighbours
on my first night afloat. Though they must have cast away soon
after sunrise, they did not disturb me, for I slept soundly, despite
the fact that the mattress I had so laboriously blown up deflated
overnight, so that I awoke to find myself on the hard boards.

Paintino the Can

Chapter III
THE BOAT BUrLDERS

When I awoke, the sunlight, reflected by the breeze*ru{fled water,
was weaving patterns of shifting light on the cabin roof, and from
without came sounds of manifold activity. There was a clinking
of hammer on anvil, the creak and sigh of forge bellows and the
clatter of caulking mallets, while a lusty male voice was singing
‘Bonnie Mary’. Presumably this songster was the blacksmith, for
occasionally there came a stamping of hooves and the song would
be interrupted by shouts of 'Whoa!* or ‘Hold up, will youf I
looked out to see two cart-horses outside the door of the smithy,
awaiting their turn to be shod, and men at work on the narrow
boat in the dry dock.

The Banbury Boatyard was a typical example of the small,
skilled family business which is having such a bitter struggle for
existence in these days when the demand is for quantity and not
quality. This demand expects extended credit and cut prices, two
conditions which the craftsman cannot fulfil, since he lacks the
necessary capital reserve, and is unwilling and unable to compete
against the inferior mass-produced article.

Old Mr. Toolcy had been a boatman like his father until he
went into the boat-building business many yeans ago. He was a

21

22

NARROW BOAT

little, bent old man with drooping white moustaches, and a most
engaging smile that sent fans of wrinkles spreading from the
corners of his remarkably bright eyes. He wore a battered bowler
hat whose austere black had mellowed with age to a rusty brown,
and the combination was so inseparable that the eye soon grew to
accept the ancient headgear as a natural part of the man. He was
getting too old for heavy work, and, as he himself admitted, he
‘couldn’t get his breath like he used’. But, like the old blacksmith
next door, who, although nearly blind, still pottered down to the
forge to blow the fire for his son, Mr. Tooley could not leave the
scene of his life’s work. It was gratifying indeed to find that his
two sons were carrying on their father's craft.

Time was when they built the long wooden boats at Tooley's
yard, but now, owing to the decline of canal trafiic and the intro*
duction of the steel boat, their work was confined to repairs. The
average wooden narrow boat requires docking about once every
three years, so that this work was spasmodic and, despite the fact
that the family were prepared to tackle any job in the way of
joinery or wheelwrighting that would tide them over, there were
times when the yard fell slack. Because of this, George, the elder
son, had been forced to take a job at the new factory on the out-
skirts of the town. This is a typical instance of llic wav in which
the craftsman is being compelled to forfeit the birthright of his
hereditary craft and lose himself in the modern induslrial system,
where the skill of hands is subordinate to the rapidity of the
machine. Perhaps one day we shall awaken from the spell of the
machine and realise how much natural art and skill we have lost
in this sorry process.

One of the most damaging effects of nK)dcri) mechanised in-
dustry is the intensive specialisation it involves. The so-called
skiUed operative acquire such a mechanical dexterity by [Haform-
ing a single repetition job that ho becomes as helpless as a raw
apprentice when confronted with a strange task, or if he is de-
prived of his costly jigs and tools. Your true craftsman, on the
hand, is infinitely versatile, because he relies primarily upon

, j *^® adaptable tools in the

world. The Tooley family demonstrated this versatilitv in the way
th^ had adapts themselves to meet changing conditions bv ac*
quirmg a considerable mechanical skill which was entirely .self-

^ ^’^® supersede the horse on
the Oxford Canal they fitted several motors in horse-boats with

THE BOAT BUILDERS

23

great success. They installed their own generating plant to light
the workshop and charge the boatmen’s wireless batteries. Most
remarkable of all, when this engine broke a piston, they did not, as
you would suppose, send an urgent order to the manufacturer for
a spare, but set to work to make another. This meant making a
wooden pattern, core and mould-box, constructing the mould in
sand, melting the iron in a crucible over their small open hearth,
pouring the mould and turning the casting to size. All this was
done as though the task was of every-day occurrence, and the
engine has run perfectly ever since.

Nevertheless it was their work of repairing and furbishing the
wooden boats that most delighted me, for it was no less than the
last miraculous survival of a craft centuries old. In the thirteenth-
century Saintc-Chapellc, of Pierre dc Montercau, in Paris there is a
carving upon a door which represents the builditig of the Ark.
Three mediaeval boat-builders are at work ; one is swinging his
mallet as he caulks the seams between the timbers, which a second
is tarring from a pot with the aid of a long-handled brush ; a third,
standing inside the hull, is using the adze. 1 saw these tools used
in precisely the same manner at Toolcy’s Yard. The adze has be-
come almost extinct among the tools of the country carpenter,
who once used it extensively for squaring beams and roof-timbers,
but among canal boat-builders this rural bygone still .survives. The
seams of the narrow boats are caulked with strands of oakum, and
the noise of the mallets which I heard so often was that same
sound which must have echoed through die woods by Beaulieu
River when they were building the ‘Agamemnon’ and the *Eury-
alus’ on the slips at Buckler’s Hard. The tall rudder-post of the
canal boat suggests an a.s.socintion even older, for the boatmen call
it a ‘ram’s head’, and so recall the carved fighting ships of the
Norsemen. On the inside of the hull the timbers are plastered with
hot ‘chalico’, a time-honoured mixture of tar, cow-hair and horse-
dung. Then a layer of felt or brown paper is applied, and finally
the thin vertical oak planks, or ‘shearing’, arc nailed into position.
Sometimes the main timbers, or ‘strakes’, at the bow or stern have
to be renewed. These have a double curvature to conform to the
graceful inward and upward sweep of the hull. A single curve can
be obtained the conventional method of steaming, but it was
explained to me that if both curves wcic obtained by this method
in a piece of straight-grained oak, it would sooner or later crack
and split. The craftsman’s solution is to obtain a timber having one

24

NARROW BOAT

correct curve already in the grain, so that it need be bent only in
one direction. Mr. Tooley must have carried this natural curve in
his mind’s eye, for he related how, years ago, he had spotted a suit-
able oak tree growing on the outskirts of the town, and when at
last he heard that it was to be felled to make way for housing
development, he bought it. Now it lay in the yard sawn into
timbers ready for use, and I can think of no belter fate that could
befall an English oak.

When the heavier jobs on the hull have been completed, the
boat-builder’s next task is the re-decoration, and 1 was lucky
enough to see this work carried out on the boat ‘Florence’, which
was on the dock at the time of my arrival. Each member of the
family played his especial part. George began in his spare time
from the factory; he was the lettering expert, and painted the
owner’s name and port of origin in elaborate cream lettering,
shaded with blue, on the large vermilion centre panel of the cabin
side. Then it was the old man’s turn to embellish his son’s work
with little garlands of bright flowers in the four corners and between
the lettering. Finally it was left to Herbert, the younger son, to
paint his castles on the four small side panels. Apart from striking
a line with a chalked string to keep the lettering level, they did no
preliminary sketching or spacing out whatever, but worked straii-ht
out of their heads with wonderful rapidity and skill. I watched
fascinated while Herbert painted the four castles in the space of
one afternoon. Dipping fet into one and then another of the
small tins of oil paint of his own grinding and mixing, lu* bleiulet,!
together the grwn, the blue and the sepia until a typical scene,
dear to genCTations of canal folk, suddenly took shape under his
hand. Here it would be a castle with a single battlenjcnted turret,
rising against a background of rolling blue hills and red sunset ;
there a more monastic structure, (win towered, and backed by
woods, a stream flowing improbably through an arch in the base
of OM tower and spreading into a lake in the foreground. Each
panel differed from its neighbour, yet all were true to that (nidi-
traal form which appears so strangely foreign in its co.iccpliou.
w^o first established this convention of tall stiiccoct! lowers :huI
wide-eaved red roofs? Perhaps it was some old wandering* Romanv
who exchanged his caravan for a narrow boat whcji ihc canals
were young, ^d adorned the walls of his new home with his
memonw of fairy-Me castics in the Carpathians. Whatever the
ongm, Its influence is still strong, for this was by no means the end

THE BOAT BUILDERS

25

of the decorative work. Castles were also painted on the inside of
the cabin doors and in the cabin itself, while the ‘ram's head’, the
tiller bar and the ‘stands’ and ‘cratches’ which support the gang-
planks all had to be picked out with bright geometrical patterns of
colour before the boatman's exacting eye was satisfied.

When all the work had been and the ‘Florence’

was floated out, her captain stood beside old Mr. Toolcy on the
dock side. After an unhurried, critical scnilin}, ‘Well, George,' he
said, ‘I reckon she looks well.’ This remark, coming from a boat-
man, was high praise, and to ray mind it was certainly well merited.
A modern economist would have pointed out quite truthfully that
she would have been just as serviceable had she been painted battle-
ship grey throughout at a great saving of labour. But because the
men of the canals arc not economists, and have a standard of
values which is not based upon paper money, the ‘Florence’ bore
a coat of many colours, and lay resplendent in the raornijig .sun.

Each boat carries two water-cans, one an open ‘dipper’ which,
as its name implies, is dipped into the canal and used for a hundred
and one domestic uses, from peeling potatoes to washing the cap-
tain's wool vest; the other is a tall can with handle, spout and lid,
like a mammoth hot-water jug, in which drinking-water is stored.
Both are elaborately decorated with flowers, and often carry the
owner’s name in white letters on a red clrcumfcivutial band. The
boatmen brought these cans to Mr. Tooley when they needed a
repaint, for the old man excelled at this work. To behold him, a.s
I did, when he sat before the bench in his narrow workshop, the
battered bowler firmly planted on the back of his head and a tray
of many-coloured paints at his elbow, was to see the pOvSt miracu-
lously living in the present. Not a past preserved in a museum or
spuriously recreated in an Art and Craft shop, but a vital tradition.
Handling his fine camel-hair brushes with wonderful surencss and
delicacy, he first of all painted little shaded discs of sepia, ochre and
pink on the green ground of the can and surrounded them with at
garland of pale green leaves. These were the centres of the roses.
When they were dry, the petals, red on sepia, yellow on ochre and
white on pink, were superim posed so simply and swiftly that only
in the way a mere blob ofpaiai sccmeti suddenly to h!o.ss<mi forth
was the skill revealed. The bright work was complcled when the
vcining of the leaves had been painted in with a very fine brush and
a coat of varnish applied to preserve it.

Mr. Tooley was once asked by a London store to teach their

NARROW BOAT

26

employees how to paint these flowers. I am glad that he refused,
for his must surely be the only surviving natural art in this country
which has not been commercially exploited and debased. I ob-
tained a promise from him that, when my own work on ‘Cressy’
had reached the decorating stage, he would paint for me a bunch of
roses on each of the four panels in the sleeping-cabin. later 1
feared that he would never be able to keep this promise, for the
old man was taken seriously ill with pneumonia and spent some
time in the local hospital. When he was at length discharged he
was still far from well, but he had not forgotten, and insisted
upon painting them. The work tired him exceedingly, he rested
frequently on the stool I provided for him, but his hand was still
sure. He has painted no flowers since.*

Now, I do not envy the art collector his masterpieces of the past,
for they, though great, are dead. These simple paintings are rarer,
because they still live. They are unique survivals of the days when
beauty was implicit in the work of hands, and was made manifest
by those hands in an infinite variety of form and pattern which
transformed the simplest object that they wrought into a thing of
inspiration and delight.

* It is with sorrow that I have to record the death of Mr. George Tooley icon
after this book was written.

Chapter IV
FITTING OUT

The company of such craftsmen as the Tooley family inevitably
acted as a stimulus to my own amateurish activities, and I set to
work with a will. I was given the freedom of their workshop and
tools — ^a great privilege which I hope I respected as much as I
appreciated it. If ever I should attain their degree of skill, which is
unlikely, I hope that I shall be equally tolerant of the bungling
efforts of beginners. I had set myself to complete an ambitious task
in a very short space of time, for Angela and I had planned to
marry in July, and were determined to set forth on our first cruise
before the end of the summer. This inevitably induced a fatal
temptation to hurry over the job which had to be most firmly sup-
pressed. It would be out of place here to describe the work in
minute detail, or enter into the technics of ‘Cressy’s’ arrangement,
but those who are interested will find a short description and a
plan of the boat in the appendix at the end of this book.

As I have already mentioned, ‘Cressy’ had been fitted out as a
holiday c^t, and her accommodation, aft of a for’ard well deck,
consisted of a large saloon twenty feet in length, containing two
berths, an anthracite stove and built-in cupboards; a small gall^

27

28

NARROW BOAT

with cooking-stove and sink, and three twin-berth sleeping cabins.
The arrangement which I planned was to consist of a small dining
saloon convertible into a spare sleeping cabin, a galley, a roomy
sitting-cabin, a state-room, bathroom and, right aft, a small work-
shop. This scheme involved moving every existing bulkhead to a
new position; installing a bath with hot-water system and sundry
tanks; moving the sink and putting in a new stove, not to mention
constructing innumerable lockers, cupboards and shelves. Mean-
while I commissioned the Tooleys to caulk and tar the hull, renew
part of the cabin work, and repaint externally from stem to stern.

My long-thought-out plan of campaign was to establish myself
as comfortebly as possible in the fore-end of the boat, and tackle
first what in a house would be described as ‘the usual oflfiices’, be-
fore aspiring to more ambitious work in the new living-cabins. I
began hiunbly enough by removing the chemical closet from its
embarrassing position amidships and re-erecting it at the stem.
Emboldened by this successful accomplishment, the workshop,
with its bench and shelves, rapidly took shape. The bathroom
came next, a far more fonmdable task, and here the first serious
snag cropped up. In planning the interior of a boat every inch of
space is vital, and we had decided to instal what is known as a
short bath’, a species which Angela had discovered in London. It
was deeper than most, the occupant sitting with his feet in a
trou^ and its advantage was a considerable saving in overall
length. Unfortunately we had entirely overlooked the fact that it
was much too wide to pass through either fore or aft doors, whose
maxim^ width was only eighteen and a half inches. Nothing
daunted, I armed myself with a two-foot rule and set forth in
■ search of another. Luckily, like most market towns, Banbury pos-
sessed sever^ excdlent ironmongers, and I found one only a
nmutes walk from the boatyard. Here I was led into a ware-
se, where I clambered about among baths of every size and
^pe. a ventable labyrinth of cold while porcelain, at last un-
one which measured exactly eighteen and a half inches in
wthout Its feet. I made a rapid mental reconstruction of

length, and decided

swimm^iJZif upbenemenon as fabulous as the alabaster
swim^g-pool of a millionaire. It was not surprising therefore
that „rival of m, bath the following

FITTING OUT

29

handcart in all its nakedness, and escorted by three men, should
cause something of a stir in the boatyard. By dint of considerable
effort on the part of the three custodians it was manoeuvred on
board and lowered into position through the aft doors without acci-
dent My next job was to mount it upon blocks of sufficient height
to allow the waste to flow overside above water level, for I was
anxious to avoid the tedious labour of pumping out, which, on so
many craft, detracts from the pleasure of a hot bath. When this
had been done the bath presented rather an odd appearance, there
being a considerable space beneath, and I conceived the idea pf
enclosing it to make a couple of roomy cupboards. It was a more
ambitious project than any I had tackled so far, and when I had
carried it out successfully my carpentering confidence had grown
to such an extent that I set about making the berth, dressing-table
and hanging cupboard for the state room without more ado. In this
fashion I steadily worked my way through the boat, tackling more
elaborate work as I went on : a set of bookshelves covering one
bulkhead of the sitting-cabin, with a writing-desk incorporated;
two berths in the dining saloon with linen-chests below; a folding
table; a wardrobe for guests and a dresser for china. Mean-
while my living and cooking space retreated before the rising tide
of alterations, and I existed permanently in a resinous atmosphere
of sawdust. In winter this state of affairs would have been most
uncomfortable, but by this time spring had turned to summer.

At last the structural work was finished, and the next problem
was the original one of decoration. Previously the boat had been
painted throughout in the canal style of brigk colours, but after
much thought I decided not to repeat this. It struck me that the
adoption of this style to such an unnatural extent and purpose
savoured of the ‘precious’, a suggestion I was most anxious to
avoid. Such an overwhelming assortment of colour was also dis-
tracting to the eye, which soon tired of its originality. On the other
hand, I did not want ‘Cressy’ to resemble a chromium-plated
Maidenhead auiser. Somehow I had to steer a middle course be-
tween these two extremes, and the best plan seemed to be to
abandon any set precedent, merely following the dictates of
personal taste for better or worse. As a result, the small dining
saloon and the galley were finished m the style of the boats, except
that the walls had cream panelling to give more light. Berths and
cupboards were painted and grained with scratch-combs m light
oak with dark blue interiors in the traditional style. Doom, win-

NARROW BOAT

30

dow surrotinds, roof-beams and gunwale were all picked out in
bright colours, and one of Herbert Tooley’s castles adorned a wall
panel. The workshop was treated in the same way, and as all
three cabins were small, while the area of light paintwork was rela-
tively large, the effect of the colours did not seem unnatural or
overwhelming. The sitting-cabin was treated entirely with a flat
cream paint to exaggerate its roominess and still further to enhance
the light, from the six windows. The desired effect of space was
achieved most successfully, and in such a light, imdistracting setting
the bindings of the books in their shelves, a sin^e bowl of flowers,
or the map of the canals which occupies one panel of the wall,
make adeqxiate and satisfying focal points of colour. I know
nothing of the art of interior decoration, yet I believe that it should
never be assertive, aiming rather to provide a sympathetic back-
ground for a few well-chosen possessions. In the state-room Mr.
Toole’s roses provided the colour, otherwise the scheme was the
same, except that the roof-beams were painted apple-green to
soften the transition between it and the bathroom, which was
painted entirely m that shade.

Finally the question of curtains and coverings had to be settled,
and Angela paid a flying visit from London with a host of patterns
which we hung in windows and surveyed critically from every
angle. Obviously we needed a very small-patterned naaterial which
would not overpower the diminutive windows. We eventually de-
cided upon two designs : one a sateen with a minute sprigged pat-
tern of roses on a cream ground, for use in the bathroom and
state-room; the other a linen fabric having a small varied pattern
of bright flowers which blended well with the colours of the galley
and the dining saloon, but was not too bold for the sitting-cabin.
We also used this material for cushion covers. We chose a service-
able dark brown linen for covering the mattress tops of the spare
berths, and a carpet of the same shade for the sitting-cabin floor.
All the other floors were stained only. Our two easy chairs were
covered in plain buff linen. These last nearly shared the fate of the
‘short bath’, for once again we had chosen them in London with
more enthusiasm flian forethought. Angela was on board when
they arrived, and when we saw them standing on the canal bank
beside the boat, our hearts sank, th^r appeared so impossibly
buUqr. Obviously they would not pass through either doorway,
^ I almost fell to sawing the ends off the legs there and then.
As a last resort we dedded to try pushing them through the

FITTING OUT

31

large double windows of the sitting cabin, and after a pro-
digious amount of twisting, turning and struggling, we suo-
ceeded in getting them aboard. I do not think we shall ever wish
to move house, but if we do I am sure our chairs will never leave
the boat.

Chapter V

THE PEOPLE OF THE BOATS

During the weeks I was working on the boat I became familiar
with all the boatmen who traded regularly along the canal. We
would exchange greetings as they drifted by on their slow joumey-
ings back and forth between Atherstone and Oxford, and, when
they moored for the night by Banbury Stop, they evinced a lively
interest in my progress, asking when I hoped to be ready and
whither I was bound. There was ‘ Four-Boat Joe’, so called be-
cause he and his companions worked between them no less than
four horse-boats and always travelled in close company. Joe, the
fattest man I have ever seen, habitually sat at the tiller of the hind-
most boat, and was never seen ashore. His appearances were some-
times infrequent, because they occasionally loaded coal as far
north as Langley Mill on the Cromford Canal in Derbyshire. This
journey over half the length of England included three tunnels,
which they had to negotiate by the old system of ‘legging’. This
meant lying on boards called ‘wings’ out-rigged from the boat sides
and pushing with their feet against the tunnel walls. Then there
wa-e crudely painted boats from Moira on the Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Canal, and black Warwickshire Canal motor boats from Nun-
eaton, but most interesting of all were the ‘Number Ones’.

A ‘Number One’ is the canal term for a boat owned by her cap-
tain, as distinct from those owned by the canal carrying com-
panies, which are worked by paid crews. In the past the bulk of
the canal traflhe was handled by these independents, the carrying
comj^y being a comparatively recent development, but modern
wnditions are all against the old race of ovmer-boatmen. Possess-
ing no capital reserve to see them throu^ a slack spell, and unable
to draw dole allowance, they cannot survive the cut-throat com-

32

NARROW BOAT

34

petition of the modem haulage business. Many have given up the
unequal struggle by selling their boats and their labours to one or
other of the companies, and so— more is the pity— there are few
‘Number Ones’ left on the canals now, and certainly none finer
than those surviving on the Oxford Canal. Old James Harwood,
captain of the ‘Searchlight’ ; Joseph Skinner of the ‘Friendship’ ;
Townsend of Abingdon and Beauchamp of Oxford ; the Hones of
Banbury, father and son— these were fine men of the old school
who still . kept their own boats. Three generations of Hones
worked three boats between them, Alfred Hone senior and his wife
the ‘Cylgate’, his son and daughter-in-law the ‘White City’, and his
granddaughters the ‘Rose and Betty’, which was named after
them. These boats were kept in spotless condition, as was only to
be expected, for an owner naturally has more pride in his boat
than a paid crew. All the paintwork was mopped down and the
brasswofk polished at every available opportunity, and on one
boat there were canvas sheets which could be let down to protect
the varnish on the cabin sides from the sun. In addition to the
customary binding of pipe-clayed turk’s heads, there floated from
&e ‘rams head’ of the ‘White City’ a long horse’s tail. I have tried
in vain to discover the origin of this custom, which I have since
seen on a few other boats, but, whatever the tradition, it has been
lost in the past. The brass bands and safety chains of the stove
chinmeys always glittered like gold, and through the cabin doors
I would catch glimpses of the beloved rows of brass knobs glim-
mering and winking in the light, of the prized openwork plates
hanging on the walls, of immaculate lace curtains and gleaming
pans. Beside the resplendent water-cans on the cabin roof stood
green-painted flower-boxes planted out with pink and white
bachelors-buttons. Often there would be jam-jars also, filled with
great bunches of wild flowers gathered on the wayside — ^primroses,
cowslips, hyacinths or dog-daisies in their season.

Nearly every canal boat carries a pet. I once saw an old lady at
Brentford who had a great tabby cat, wearing a collar, which was
stalkmg round the cabin roof with mincing step and flaunting tail
while she stood at the tiller. A dog is a far more common com-
panion, however, and most boatmen seem to find room for a
keamel somewhere in the cargo space. Often, too, a linnet or
canary in a cage swings from the cabin roof or flutters in the sun
on &e deck. ‘White City’ carried two dogs and a coop of chickens,
while grand-daughter Betty kept a pair of rabbits on her boat.

THE PEOPLE OF THE BOATS

35

When the boats are empty there is plenty of room for children and
animals to play, and on one occasion I watched a boat pass the
yard with three diminutive children having the time of their lives
on improvised swings hung from the cross stretchers. When the
boats are loaded it is a very different story; animals must find a
precarious niche amongst the cargo, while the children are con-
fined to the cabin.

The mere landsman, sitting in one of these narrow-boat cabins,
only 12 ft. long by 7 ft wide, cannot help but marvel that this is
the boatman’s home ; that within this tiny compass all the manifold
needs of a large family are administered, and that it has been a
witness of all the comedy, drama and tragedy of many lifetimes.
When the cabin doors are closed the only daylight comes from a
small ‘bull-eye’ in the roof and a lookout forward, only a foot
square, which is often obscured when the boat is loaded. Light at
night is provided by a large three-cornered parafl&n lantern hung
in an angle of the wall. Immediately to the left of the doorway is
the coal-fired cooking and heating stove, the space around it occu-
pied by saucepans. On the stove-top tea is forever brewing, for
the boat people are inveterate tea-drinkers. Their teapots, like
their water-cans, are usually of an original and traditional design —
a brown salt glaze stoneware.omamented with a band of coloured
flowers in relief and a white plaque bearing in blue letters some
simple motto such as ‘Love at Home’. Their manufacture is now
extinct, as I found when I tried to obtain one. They were last
made especially for an old lady who kept a shop on the Ashby
Canal, or the ‘Moira Cut’, as the boatmen call it. The supply failed
with her death and the closing of her shop.

The boat wife keeps her provisions in two cupboards, one in the
tapering stern aft of the deck, and the other beneath the deck floor.
Next to the stove is another tall cupboard, set at an angle of forty-
five degrees to the wall, the door of which, elaborately decorated
with castle and flowers, is hinged at the base, and when openedforms
a table for meals. When it is folded back after use any crumbs
fall into a shallow drawer beneath, which is specially provided for
this purpose. A wide bench along the opposite wall is the only sit-
ting accommodation, and does duty at night as a bed for the chil-
dren. A second and wider bench, with cupboards above it and a
folding centre portion, lies athwart the fore end of the cabin. It is
usually screened by a pair of lace curtains. This is the boatman’s
marriage bed; here, in this little space, he was bom and wfll one

NARROW BOAT

36

day die. No simpler existence can be imagined. The boatman’s
life is stripped of all the complex comforts with which we have
surrounded ourselves at the price of contentment. He works and
lives hard, but he has not heard of hire-purchase agreements,
while the collectors of light and telephone accounts, rates and
taxes, know him not.

Cleanliness in such cramped quarters means unremitting labour ;
there can be no half measures, and the canal folk are either
scrupulously clean or unbelievably squalid. On investigation the
latter class usually turn out to be a family ‘off the land’, the new
poor without pride who are the product of industrial cities. Of
recent years they have been extensively employed by the larger
canal carrying companies, who are finding it difficult to recruit
sufficient crews from the dwindling ranks of the old proud stock of
independent boatmen. Soon they will be an extinct race. Their
traditional and graceful dress is fast disappearing, a shoddy, shame-
less poverty is taking its place. Not so very long ago the boat cap-
tain wore trousers of buff corduroy or dark mock-moleskin, tight
fitting, but belling from the knee. These he kept in place by a
broad belt, woven of such bright colours that it resembled a vivid
sash. His waistcoat, too, was of corduroy or moleskin, and he
wore a coat of distinctive cut with high, old-fashioned lapels. I
have seen one or other of these garments in use, but never the
complete outfit, and only once, ten years ago, the gay belt. The
captain’s wife wore a tight-waisted cotton dress of checked or
sprigged pattern, the bodice most elaborately ornamented with
tucks or smocking, and the ankle-length skirt very full with pleats.
Her feet were protected by black boots lacing to the calf. In cold
weather she would drape a shawl about her shoulders or over her
head, but in summer she would don a most wondrous black sub-
Iwnnet, more closely resembling the mantillas of Spain than the
simple bonnet of the English countrywomen. Man is usually the
coMervative of fashion, but curiously enough on the canals the
position seems to be reversed, for it is the women who cling more
tenuously to ffieir traditional dress. I have seen many wearing
thm distinctive dresses and shawls, and even the sun-bonnet is not
quite extinct. I had thought that this was another item on the list
of old and gr^ous things which had gone forever until, one warm
summCT evening wh^ I was working on ‘Cressy’, an unfamiliar
Warwickshire Canal boat passed by. The woman who stood at the
tiller mi^t have floated serenely through a century. She had on
the typical tight-waisted dress, the full skirt swinging gracefully to

THE PEOPLE OF THE BOATS

37

her every movement and, to my wonder and deKght, she was wear-
ing her black bonnet. Rows of tucks made a dark halo over her
head, and from the gathered crown a broad frilled wimple fell wide
and low over her shoulders. Her vital, gipsy face and gold earrings
could have found no more fitting frame. A little group of women
from the cottages on Factory Street stood gossiping by the draw-
bridge, undistinguished and drab in their cheap, mass-produced
clothes. She was poorer than they, yet possessed a grace and
dignity that seemed almost regal.

The ubiquitous wireless set has become almost universal in the
boat cabins, and is the boatman’s only link with the modern world.
He cannot read the newspapers, which is small loss to him, and he
seldom has time or inclination for the cinema. Like our rural
ancestors with their country songs, festivals and dances, he has to
provide his own amusement, than which there is no healthier
stimulant for talent. As a result many boatmen are self-taught
musicians, and I found that nearly every boat on the Oxford Canal
carried a melodeon, a concertina or an accordion. Often of a night
time I would hear the familiar strains of ‘Daisy Bell’ or Two
Lovely Black Eyes’ floating over the water from the cabin of a
moored boat. Needless to say, Herbert Tooley had become pro-
ficient in repairing these instruments, and I looked on one evening
while he dexterously fitted a new key spring to a melodeon belong-
ing to James Harwood of the ‘Searchlight’. While he worked, the
old boatman talked, his unhurried, rhythmical speech as soothing
as a Gregorian chant. He described graphically his only joumejy in
‘one o’ they moty cars’, whose speed struck him as being out of all
reason, so great that it ‘fair took the breath out of him’. He then
went on to relate an encounter he had had with a local policeman,
a story I shall never forget because it was such a perfect example
of the boatman’s simple yet shrewd philosophy. It happened early
one morning that the policeman was crossing the Brackley Road
bridge as the ‘Searchlight’ passed beneath bound for Oxford. He
was a very young policeman, and seeing the old man placidly
ensconced at the tiller of his slow-moving boat, he leant over the
parapet and called sarcastically, ‘Now then, don’t you be in too
much of a hurry’. He had not reckoned with old Jim, however.
‘If no one went no faster than what I do,’ came the sonorous reply
from the canal, ‘there’d be a sight less trouble in this world, and
what’s more, young man, you’d be out of a job like as not.’ Even
old Jim, wise though he is, cannot realise what a volume of truth
lay in those few words.

Chapter VI
BELLS AND BEER

When my work was unavoidably held up, or the boatyard work-
shop was shut down at week-ends, I found time to explore Banbury
and the country district around it, discovering beneath a workaday
surface the old life of the town which has survived the combined
onslaughts of the Civil War and the Industrial Revolution. Crom-
well a.nd his Puritans ravaged the town with exceptional severity,
pillaging the beautiful Gothic church so effectively that it was
afterwards demolished. An engraving of it hangs in the vestry of
the present church, a pompous structure in the Palladian style
designed by a contemporary of Wren, a style that commemorates
the b^ of that self-conscious inteUectualism which first scorned
tradition. T^e local stone does not respond to this conceit, as it
did to the smple but inspired hands of the Gothic craftsmen, and
the church is as empty of feeling and faith as a mausoleum.

I climbed to the top of the tower with the young churchwarden,
and together we leant over the balustrade while he pointed out
various landmarks and we discussed the architectural merits of old
buil(^gs which we both knew. On this subject he was remarkably
well infomed, and it was gratifying to discover, in so young a
man, an interest in the past so rare and so sincere. Below us lay
the town, sprawling untidily across the broad valley of the Cher-
well, and it was easy to trace its growth, from the nucleus of old
bmldmgs clustered about the market square, to the red rash of
modem suburbia which had broken out on the western slopes
along the Oxford road. From this high vantage point the canal

38

BELLS AND BEER

39

assumed a more important place; for it was possible to follow its
course— a broad silver ribbon winding through the meadows by
the river— long after the roads out of the town had been lost to
sight.

Meanwhile, inside the tower two perspiring individuals from a
local firm of watchmakers were busily engaged in winding the
church clock. This was no mean task, for no less than four great
weights had to be raised from the base of the tower. These oper-
ated the movement, the quarter chime, the strike and the carillon.
This last was installed in commemoration of Victoria’s Jubilee, and
interested me greatly, because although I had heard the carillons
of Dursley, in the South Cotswolds, and of the bell tower of Eves-
ham, I had never before seen the mechanism. The movement was
similar to that of a child’s musical box, being operated by a re-
volving fibre drum studded with brass pins which tripped the
spring-and-cam-retumed bell-cranks that were connected to the
bell clappers by cables. When it was desired to change the tune,
the drum could be moved laterally along its spindle so that another
set of pegs was brought into action. Unfortunately the Banbury
carillon was in a sorry state of repair, many of the pegs being worn
or broken, so that only two of the original six tunes were still
playable. I was lucky to see it at work, for in order to conserve its
failing energies it was only set to play twice during the day. We
watched and waited until the clock, ponderously ticking, crept to
the hour and tripped the release. Then the old machine came to
life with a most prodigious whirring and jangling of cables, and,
high overhead, the beUs rang out. There is a great serenity in the
sound of a carillon, especially if it be heard distantly on a windless
evening of high summer, or upon the hills. Then this measured
repetition of simple notes voicing the passing of time seems also to
express that unhurried, unshakeable continuity which is the very
essence of country life. I hope that the Banbury carillon will not
fall silent, but it will be an even sorrier day if that tradition which
it voices, albeit brokenly, should perish.

The bells of Banbury were cast by successive generations of
rural craftsmen at a long-vanished foundry in the neighbouring
village of Chacombe. One can imagine what an undertaking the
casting of the big tenor must have been, how all the villagers were
agog for news that the cast had been successful, and eager to hear
the tssll’s first deqp, sonorous note. The Banbury men are ^eat
bell-ringers, and the records of past ringings of ‘Grandsire Triples’

40 NARROW BOAT

hang round the belfry walls, together with a very perfect set of
hand-bells.

The vandalism of the Puritans was inspired by misguided ideal-
ism and an understandable revolt against the autocracy of the
Church. The second revolution is the more tragic because it lacks
any ideal whatever. The brewers who have despoiled the old inns
of Banbury, and the chain-store mongers who have defaced the
ancient houses with their chromium and plate-glass shop fronts
have been actuated solely by the aim of money-making. The Eng-
lish inn holds a place in the life of the village or country town as
important as that of the church. For generations it has been the
hub about which the vigorous life of the rural community re-
volved; it has been the poor man’s parliament and platform, his
playground, and his solace after labour. It is an institution which
the milk-bar, the cinema and the social club can never replace,
but the brewers have transformed it into a sordid drink-shop as
characterless as their liquor. The Banbury mns were a particu-
larly unhappy example. Old gables had been covered with drab
pebble-dash or stucco and further disfigured by faring signs which
proclaimed the beer, not the house, while their interiors either dis-
played a featureless modernity or, more frequently, languished in
the chill bleakness of pretentious Victorian mahogany and fly-
blown aspidistras. Only at one a magnificent pair of oak doors
beneath the courtyard archway remain to speak eloquently of the
past. If, in some more enlightened future time, the havoc wrought
by our commercialised age comes to be assessed, the brewers will
face a heavy charge.

The shops have not suffered so hardly. A number still retain
their old bow windows, especially in the bewildering maze of
alleyways between Hi^ Street and Parsons Street, while above
many an example of modern shop fitting the original upper win-
dows of the fifteenth-century houses gaze down upon the busy
streets like wise old eyes, their carved drip-stones like placid brows
above them.

Banbury is at its best on Market Day, especially on a winter’s
evening, when the Square is filled with stalls, each with its flickering
naphtha flare, which casts such a magical leaping light upon the
pyramids of oranges and apples that they glow like enchanted
fruits of the Hesperides. I was glad to find that they still held open
market, for too many have been banished from streets and squares
that have seen their booths for centuries, and been conde m ned

BELLS AND BEER

41

to gloomy market halls where they lose their vagabond charm, to
become a species of multiple store where the kerb-side pedlar and
the vociferous cheap-jack find no place. IXvp markets a week sup-
ply the old and the new life of the town. The first, held on a
Thursday, is the larger, and caters, as it has always done, for the
rural district of North Oxfordshire. Brightly painted mowers,
ploughs and reapers are pushed on to the kerWde before the
ironmongers’ shops, the better to catch the eyes of likely buyers;
in one comer of the square protesting chickens, great baskets of
eggs and golden farm butter are sold to the highest bidder by a
voluble auctioneer. Around him stand groups of gaitered farmers
and their plump, bustling wives, filling the air with the murmur
of their rich country dialect. The Saturday market is very different.
Here come the wives of the men from the factories with the con-
tents of Friday night’s pay envelopes, and theirs is the discordant,
clipped speech of Birmingham. They crowd round the Jew vendors
of shoddy clothing and gawdy ornaments, clutching their string
bags and shrilly admonishing their grubby children.

One day I watched a kerb-side pedlar who, with the aid of a
very second-hand aluminium saucepan, was demonstrating the
infallibility of a cold solder he was hawking. He was a spare, grey-
haired figure in the sixties, dressed in cloth cap and shabby blue
raincoat. His harangue drew little attention, so that he presently
feu to packing his wares into a dog-eared suitcase, muttering
bitterly to himself on the inconstancy of customers. He had been
‘in the game’ all his life, he said, adding morosely that the markets
were not what they had been, particularly in the South and West
of England. He only ‘ran’ one line at a time, and had been hawk-
ing his solder for the past nine years with enough success to earn
a living. Time was when he had roamed the whole of England for
twelve months of the year, but now he was growing old. He had
settled down in Northampton with ‘the best wife a man could
have’, and there he spent the winter months, only visiting local
markets ‘just to keep his hand in’. When the warm days came
round he confessed that he stiU felt the urge to wander, and in a
fortnight, he said, he would be away once more, travelling the
market towns of Yorkshire and Durham before crossing the moors
to Cumberland. I have never used the tube of solder which was
the price of this conversation, but I consider that sixpence was
small fee for a talk with a travelling tinker.

Compton Winyates

Chapter VII
FOUR HOUSES

In my wanderings farther afield I came upon four magnificent
examples of the English country house. They made a striking con-
trast, not merely of architectural style and type, but of the typical
vicissitudes of fortune that had overtaken them of recent years.

The first was Compton Winyates, surely one of the most perfect
specimens of Tudor domestic architecture in the country. Possess-
ing the added advantage of a secluded and flawless setting in a
natural cup of the Edgehill scarp, it looks out over the Warwick-
shire Vale to westward, and is sheltered upon the other three sides
by slopes of verdant parkland studded with great trees. It was on a
^e spring evening that I came along the narrow road which skirts
the southern rim of this natural amphitheatre, and it was with
almost incredulous wonder that I first saw the great house glo\ving
below me like a rosy jewel laid upon green velvet. For the trees
were casting long fingers of shadow across the grass, and the walls
of the house, the many turrets, gables and tall twisted chimneys
absorbed the light of the westering sun as only old Warwickshire
brickwork can. It was evident that Compton Winyates was for-
tunate in its owner, for not only was the fabric in excellent repair,
but it was surrounded by a sea of smooth-shaven lawns, while the
terraced garden on the south front was a marvel of topiary work.
The small stone church in one comer of the grounds was the only
other evidence of man’s handiwork visible, so that this still, seques-

42

FOUR HOUSES

43

tered place seems to have become an island outside time. I should
not have felt surprised if an Elizabethan gallant in gay hose and
slashed doublet had suddenly appeared in the yew walk, or a
cavalier in cloak and plume ridden out through the great doorway
from the central court.

Gracious Compton Winyates resembles a court favourite of
ready charm, a long, low building slumbering amidst gardens with
no thought but beauty and peace. Broughton Castle, on the other
hand, is a grim old warrior with little time for airs and graces. It
has always been a Protestant stronghold, and it was here, in a
secluded upper room, that the Cromwellians hatched the plot
which plunged England in civil war. As I walked over the moat
bridge and through the forbidding stone gatehouse which guards
the only approach, I thought that they could have chosen no more
fitting place in which to plan violence and the overthrow of kings.
The stone of which the house is built is a sterner medium than the
warm brick, and has been employed to more austere purpose on
th^’ site of an older fortified dwelling whose ruins are still visible.
From the edge of the encircling moat the tall gables soar upward
in a compact, powerful mass, their stone-mullioned windows look-
ing down sombrely at their reflections in the dark water where
swans float among the lilies. After the polished elegance of Comp-
ton Winyates there seemed to be an atmosphere of neglect about
Broughton; the lawn before the house was untrimmed, and the
only guardian of the gate was an elderly gander who regarded me
askance out of the corner of a bright blue eye, and hissed sus-
piciously. One would make a perfect setting for Shakespearean
comedy, but the other is an incarnation of Poe’s ‘House of
Usher’, particularly when the tall, rook-haunted trees beside the
moat are bare of leaf and the dead water lies still under a darkling
winter sky,

Stulgrave, some miles east of Banbury in the direction of North-
ampton, came next. It is typical of the smaller Northamptonshire
Manor House, simply and graciously built of stone in a style
closely akin to the Cotswold, though lacking the latter’s finer
graces. Today it might have been an obscure farmhouse, had it
not cradled the Washington family. For this reason greatness has
been thrust upon it, the Stars and Stripes floats from a flag-pole on
the lawn, and the whole interior has been turned into a museum
of the period with a thoroughness and good sense of showmanship
which are characteristically American. Sulgrave is fortunate in

NARROW BOAT

44

possessing a custodian who combines great enthusiasm and sym-
pathy with exceptional knowledge and good taste, for the house is
a treasury of all those naturally lovely things that were once a
part of every-day life to the self-sufficient rural community which
Sulgrave once housed. It was with a curious blend of wonder and
sadness that I went from room to room : wonder at the beauty
that crowded upon the eye at every turn; sadness because that
beauty, for all the consummate showmanship, was only the hollow
image of its former self, because the hands and the spirit which
once breathed life into it had gone, perhaps never to return. I
was reminded of Yeats’s golden bird;

‘Such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come. . .

I had rather see one simple painted can in Mr. Tooley’s work-
shop than all the wealth of Sulgrave. One is a poor spark of still-
living tradition, the other an embalmed splendour.

In search of the last house I came to Wroxton, and I have yet to
find a comelier village east of the Cotswolds. It hangs on the slope
of a little valley, and though the main road from Banbury to
Stratford-on-Avon touches the fringe of it at the top of the slope,
the village has suffered little harm. The old main street runs along
the valley bottom, an uneven rank of thatched stone cottages
whose gardens were a riot of blossom when I walked down it on
a drowsy afternoon in early summer. At the end of it was the gate-
way to Wroxton Abbey, and passing through it I came upon
tragedy in the midst of peace. The great house of ochreous stone
lay empty, the shuttered windows staring blindly at a fussy scarlet
tractor which was hauling timber from the park across the drive,
and at the man who was mowing with a scythe what had once been
the rose garden. One bush of crimson roses still bloomed in wild
unpruned profusion, and here the bees were busy. Their humming
mingled with the whirr of a mowing machine from a nearby pad-
dock, and lapped about by these soft summer sounds, it was easy
to believe that Wroxton was not dead, but sleeping. Yet, walking
round the flawed terrace where dandelions and docks were
sprouting, I felt that the tide of life had left it, just as it had left
the butter-patters, the wool-comb and the spit in Sulgrave kitchen.

Chapter VIIJ
THE UPPER AVON

“Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston,

Haunted Hillborough, Hunpy Grafton,

Dodging Exhall, Papist Wixford,

Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bidford.”

It was among these villages immortalised by Shakespeare that we
spent the first few days after our marriage, and the last for many
months on land. I know of no better place in which to spend a
s umm er’s day than this green heart of England, the Vale of Avon.
The windows of our room in the iim at ‘Drunken Bidford’ looked
out over willow-bordered meadows towards the village of Barton
and the slope of Marclifif. In the foreground the river, a broad
spate of rippling shallows, flowed under King John’s bridge,
which has carried the wayfarers of Buckle Street for four hundred
and fifty years. Below the bridge the water tumbled over a weir,
and in the night-time, when house and street were silent, the
slumbrous murmur of the falling water so filled the room that it
was easy to believe that we were afloat.

I had hoped that ‘Cressy’ would have been ready, so that we
might have set out on our long-awaited cruise immediately,
but althou^ my own work was finished, Mr. Tooley’s illness
had delayed the work on the hull, which required three more days
to complete. We had therefore decided to spend this time explor-
ing a river which, alas, ‘Cressy’ could never visit, for the Upper

45

46

NARROW BOAT

Avon Navigation has lain derelict since 1873, Only traces of the
ruined locks remain, while the channel is in places so shallow,
in others so beset by dangerous currents, that to attempt such a
journey even in a canoe would be to court disaster.

On the first morning of our stay we followed the course of the
river downstream from Bidford, crossing the tributary Arrow
at Salford Priors, and continuing through that pleasant village
until we caught sight of the tall, ogee-curved gable heads of Abbots
Salford Hall upreared among the trees. This is a house that is not
easily passed by at any time, and as we had all the day before us,
we turned beneath the arch of the gatehouse and over the weed-
grown flagstones to the door. Our knock was answered by the
old lady who looks after the Catholic chapel, which, unlike the
rest of the building, is stiU in use.

‘Will you be pleased to come in’, said she, and ushered us into
a lofty hall floored with stone, as bare and clull as an empty coal-
ceUar.

If it be true diat a house can be haunted by the past, then every
room at Abbots Salford must harbour some sad spectre. As at
Wroxton, life has gone from it, but gone so great a while ago that
wind and weather have taken heavy toll. We wandered through a
labyrinth of forsaken rooms, some utterly bare, others containing
a few pathetic sticks of Victorian furniture, a cheap veneer wash-
stand or a jangling truckle bed. Layers of faded paper hung
in tatters from the walls or bellied from the ceiling, stained with
damp and stirred to an uncanny rustling by unsuspected draughts.
As we climbed to the second storey this tale of ruin became more
tragic still, for floors had rotted into gaping holes and laths
protruded through plaster like broken bones. In one of these
rooms was the entrance to that not uncommon provision in old
Catholic houses, a secret hiding-place for ^e concealment of
priests in the period of persecution. This hide is so ingeniously
constructed that, althou^ there is no record of its history, it may
well have been Ae work of diat master builder of hides, Nicholas
Owen, alias Little John’. I could visualise him, ostensibly a
journeyman mason, coming with his pack of tools to do general
repairs during the day, but at night, unsuspected even by the
SQwants, setting about this secret work. The hide itself is cunningly
conc^ed in an an^e of the roof, the entrance a seemingly sub-
stan^ recused cupboard lined with oak. The whole back of this
cupboard with its two shelves swings inwards upon hidden

THE UPPER AVON

47

and could then be bolted upon the inside. If an accomplice were
at hand to place a few articles upon the shelves, the result would
elude the most practised pursuivant. Who knows who may have
sought shelter here?— perhaps one or both of those erstwhile
notorious recusants, Father Garnet and Father John Gerrard.

The old Hall is called ‘The Nunnery’ locally, because it once
gave brief shelter to a certain French order, and I thought the most
pleasant room in the house was the great garret under the roof
which is reputed to have been their dormitory. It is an airy place
of whitewashed plaster walls and fine high windows which look
out over the tree-tops to the river. Nevertheless we were glad to
be out in the bright sunlight again with the scent of warm grass
about us, for the whole house struck cold as a vault, even on this
sximmer day, and over all there lay a heavy, mouldering smell of
damp and decay. As we left the staring windows of the old Hall
behind, walking over Worcester meadows towards the river, there
came into my head those lines from Hood’s ‘Haunted House’ :

‘O’er all thete hung the shadow of a fear;

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted;

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,

The place is haunted.’

We had thought to cross the river at Qeeve Mill and so climb
the farther bank to Cleeve Prior, but the floods of early spring
had made a yawning breach in the weir sill, carrying with it the
wooden footbridge. No doubt it was the violence of these annual
floods which led to the abandonment of the old navigation, for
they must have inflicted serious damage to the locks. Beyond the
weir stood the old mill, beautifully placed imder the steep shoulder
of Cleeve Hill, but it had become a tea-house for Birmingham
anglers, the wheels silent forever.

Determined to cross the river somehow, we walked two miles
farther downstream to Harvington Mill. This, too, was abandoned
and stood in the grounds of a substantial Georgian farmhouse of a
type that is frequently met with in the Vale of Evesham. It was a'
secluded place far removed from the road, and our approach
set dogs a-barking, while fantail pigeons rose from the roof-ridge
like wind-blown white cloths as we went to the door. Certainly
we might cross the river, we were told, but there was no bridge;
we would have to wade across the head of the weir. Determined
not to be intimidated, although the noise of falling water seemed
alarmin^y loud, we were led along a narrow, mown pathway

NARROW BOAT

48

through a jungle of reeds and withies past the mill to the weir brink.
The mill-race and the old navigable channel by the ruined lock
made two little islets so lost and so densely overgrown with
nettles, old rotting willows and gnarled apple trees, that a fugitive
could have lain hidden there for a twelve-month. The Avon
looked perilously swift and deep, but we took off our shoes and
stockings and set forth as mediaeval pilgrims must have done when
they journeyed to the Holy Blood of Hayles, or to pluck a twig
from the Holy Thorn at Glastonbury. By keeping to the weir
sill, the water did not come above our calves, and ten minutes’
walk through the meadows on the farther side brought us to
‘The Fish and Anchor’, a solitary inn, where we celebrated our
crossing. Our frugal lunch of bread and cheese and beer would
not have been so welcome had there been a bridge across the river
at Harvington.

On our return by the same route we were welcomed by the
mother and dau^ter of the farm, simple and most kindly people,
who showed us their garden, gracious lawns sloping to the water’s
edge and half-wild flower-beds crowded with marigolds, canterbury
bells and sweet william. They took an unfeigned and unaffected
delight in displaying their flowers and fruit, dogs and cats, each
of which had its story. The most interesting of these concerned
the fine house plant, or house leek as it is sometimes called, which
grew on the roof of an outbuilding.

One day, we were told, a family of gipsies had encamped near by,
as they axe wont to do in this neighbourhood for the pea-picking.
Their youngest child was taken ill with pneumonia — so ill that her
life was despaired of until by some means the parents discovered
the existence of this house plant. They were permitted to take away
some of the thick, cactus-like leaves, from which they made an
infuaon, and the child rapidly recovered when this primitive
medicine had been administered. The scqptic will say ‘in spite of’
rather than ‘because’, but is it unduly credulous to credit the
wandering gipsy with shreds of ancient wisdom which the more
civilised have lost? In this quiet, remote place by the dreaming
river stranger things would have seemed literal truth.

* ♦ * * ♦

That evening we motored to the Memorial Theatre at Stratford-
on-Avon, a pilgrimage every good Shakespearean makes at least
once in a lifetime. I like Stratford despite the fact that it has be-
come a factory of Shakespeare and an apotheosis of all that is

THE UPPER AVON

49

Artful and Crafty. I can find it in my heart to forgive all the
Birmingham brass knick-knacks, the bus-loads of sightseers, and
the pseudo-Tudor frontages when I see Hugh of Clopton’s Bridge,
or the spire of Trinity Church soaring above the lime trees by the
river’s margin. Between these two stands the theatre, and I admire
this also, though a fierce controversy rages ceaselessly about it.
Many maintain that it resembles an electric power-station, but
when asked what they would set in its place, can only mutter
vaguely: ‘Something more appropriate’, by which they mean,
presumably, a Tudor plagiarism as empty of inspiration as Vic-
torian Gothic. What a travesty, and what a condenonation of our
impoverished age such a builiung would have been! The brick-
work of the New Theatre harmonises gracefully with Qopton
Bridge, otherwise it rightly belongs to our own age, and is one of
the very rare examples of modern architecture wherein a crystal-
lised style seems actually to have emerged from a bewildering
confliction of form, of pretentious vulgarity or commercial de-
gradation. There is a suggestion of permanence and power in the
bold proportion of masses culminating in the squat tower, a stark
cleanliness of line that speaks a certain passionate austerity fitting
to the play-house of so noble a poet. I think great William would
approve his memorial.

The Stratford-on-Avon Canal has been broadened into an
ornamental lake where it passes through the grounds before the
Theatre, and this is well enough, but whoever was responsible for
laying out the gardens has committed the unforgivable crime of
throwing an ugly horizontal bridge across the centre of the lock
by which the canal joins the Avon. The lock, otherwise complete,
is thus not only made impassable, to the great inconvenience of
the owners of Ihe small pleasure-boats on the river who had been
accustomed to move their craft onto the canal in times of flood,
but it is entirely robbed of its naturally practical and pleasing-
appearance, and looks, surrounded by flower-beds, as incongruous
as a rick staddle stone in a suburban garden. An arched bridge
of traditional canal style built just above or below the lock would
have made a world of difference at little extra cost, but the imagina-
tion of the designers of municipal gardens seldom seems to rise
above litter baskets, cast-iron seats and strictly regimented flower-
borders.

Under the wall in the comer of the gardens near aopton
Bridge there rests a relic which most visitors to Stratford miss

50

NARROW BOAT

because it has nothing to do with Shakespeare. This is no less than
one of the wagons which once ran on the ancient horse tramway
between Stratford and Shipston-on-Stour. Standing on a short
length of the original fish-bellied cast-iron rail, it looks strangely
out of place amid these lawns and poplars, as though it had been
shxmted there and forgotten long years before there was a theatre

at Stratford. After a surfeit of the pseudo in the streets of the town,
it is a refreshing sight and an interesting one, for it is a significant
symbol of our early transition from the agricultural to the industrial,
being nomorethan afarm tumbril setupon primitive flanged wheels,
the brake an oak block fixed to a pivoted wooden lever.

By the time we had finished examining this grandfather among
railway wagons the square before the theatre was packed with
cars and itwas time to take our seats. The play at Stratford certainly
attracts a varied audience, of whom the most surprising element
is the prosaic Birmingham business man who, one feels, would
be more at home in the stalls at a musical comedy. He sits there,
stolid and imperturbable in his sober chamber-of-commerce

suit, rubbing shoulders on the one hand with a supercilious
member of the local county, who loudly discourses on a recent
run with the Grafton, to the detriment of the delightful prelude
of Elizabethan mxxsic, and on the other with an intellectual poseur
from Bloomsbury or Chelsea. Add to these a leavening of the in»
evimble Americans, a number of adolescent school-girls cherishing
their first naive eroticisms over Romeo, and you have a fairly
representative cross section of an average audience at the Memorial
Theatre. Mixed though it may be, it is appreciative, perhaps
because most of its members have travelled a considerable distance
to attend. Many people hold that the place of the theatre is in the
heart of a big city, and that when it is removed to the country the
drama tends to stagnate and become tainted with the afiectations
of an unrepresentative coterie. I do not beUeve this, nor do I
trunk it ^e of Stratford. Admittedly there is a tendency, par-
^ production of the comedies, towards extravagance
of d^cor at the expense of the play itself, and a speeding up to
a t^po approaching that of the modem farce, but London
productions ^ve exhibited the same faults. Certain it is that I
would m^er have the play for the dark quiet of the Avon flowing
bmeath her bndges than for the discordant clamour of some dty

SXTCCu

As we drove back from the play throu^ the warm summer night

THE UPPER AVON

51

to Bidford, with white moths dancing in the beam of the headlamps
and moonlit mist smoking from the hayfields, we resolved that one
day we would bring ‘Cressy’ by the canal to Stratford and enjoy a
week of play-going.

It was with this idea still in mind that we set forth the next
morning through winding lanes by Temple Grafton and Billesley
to find the Stratford Canal at Old Stratford Locks. So secretive
is it that we should, I think, have searched in vain without the aid
of the ordnance survey map. We came upon it in a narrow, tree-
shaded cutting, and, leaving the car on the bridge above, clambered
down onto the overgrown towing-path. The water where it was
not shadowed by great, fern-like masses of weed growing up from
the bottom, was crystal clear, but there appeared to be disturbingly
little depth. A flotilla of plump Aylesbury ducks which swam
purposefully by seemed to be the only traffic, but we walked in the
direction of Stratford to have a look at the locks, and found them,
to our surprise, in excellent order. We encountered also a most
original type of over-bridge. It was of extremely short span,
there being no towing-path beneath, and the space between the
brick abutments being only a boat’s width. This would have meant
that the boatman must unhitch his tow-line save for a most
ingenious provision. The arch consisted of two massive cast-iron
brackets set in the brickwork, and these failed to meet by the space
of about an inch at the crown. The balustrade was similarly
divided, so that as the boat slid under, and the horse walked round,
the tow-line could be dropped through the slot. This curious
‘divided bridge’ is a unique regional type as peculiar to the
Stratford Canal as are the wooden drawbridges to the Oxford.

Just below the first two locks we met an old man mowing the
long grass on the banks, and of him I enquired whether any boats
ever passed through. He was not only very old, but very deaf
also, for I had to repeat my question as he leant upon the hand-pin
of his scythe and cupped ail ear. This time a li^t of comprehension
dawned in his old eyes and he nodded in a most encowaging
fashion, ‘Oh, ah’, he affirmed, ‘there comes one sometimes’, but
when I asked how long it was since he had seen the last he confessed
that it was ‘’bout four years back’. He went on to explain how
the railway company who owned the canal had killed the traffic
by raising the toUs but were forced to maintain it in theoretically
navigable order. ‘If you wants to come along this a-way,’ he
concluded, ‘they can’t stop you, and what’s more they be bound to

52

NARROW BOAT

give you the water to see as you do get through, but you’d best
come afore the weed be up.’ Warming to us, the old man related
bitterly how, after a lifetime spent on the canal here and ‘Preston
Bagot way’, he was to be .dismissed the following year with a
meagre pension, and turned out of his lock cottage. ‘But,’ he
concluded, with a malicious twinkle in his eye, ‘there be’ant no
road to ’en; all my belongings was brought there by boat, and by
boat they’ll have to go, whether they likes it or no.’ He turned once
more to his mowing, handling his scythe with the effortless grace
of the countryman bom, and we left him, pondering the manifold
sins of railway companies, but more than ever determined to make
an assault upon the canal in the not-far-distant future.

The sight of this forgotten canal idling through these quiet
fields, combined with the brilliant weather of high summer, made
us doubly anxious to embark on our voyage, so the following
morning we took the road by Sunrising Hill back to Banbury.
We arrived at the boatyard to see ‘Cressy’ still on the dock but
complete at last, her cabin-work resplendent in a coat of fresh
blue paint bordered with scarlet, a tiller painted in bands of many
colours like a barber’s pole, and a knot of roses on her bow. These
last had been painted by Herbert Tooley in fair imitation of his
father’s work. An hour later Herbert raised the stop-planks from
the mouth of the dry dock, the water thundered in, and in a little
while our painted boat floated slowly and majestically out into
the afternoon sunlight. We had only to take in stores, unpack our
numerous belongings and we should be away.

Claydon Top Lock

PART TWO

Chapter IX

BANBURY TO BRAUNSTON

On an afternoon of the last week in July the great moment arrived
when we slipped ‘Cressy’s’ mooring lines and drew slowly away
from the boatyard, heading northwards. Only Herbert Tooley on
the bank and the blacksmith at the smithy door watched oxir un-
ostentatious departure. Beside us on the aft deck stood Mr.
Tooley senior in his Sunday suit and best bowler. He had sug-
gested ‘giving us a hand’ as far as Cropredy, such a childlike eager-
ness lurking beneath his deliberately casual offer that we had not
the heart to refuse the old man. As we rounded the bend in the
canal that had been the tempting hmit of my view for so long, I
looked back over the churning wake of our screw for a last glimpse
of the familiar yard before the tall hedgerow beside the tow-path
hid it from sight, ,

For a quarter of a mile the canal ran close beside the main road
to Coventry, a dreary stretch of tarmac made hideous by hoard-
ings, and along which cars and lorries were buzzing fretfully. But
soon we veered away to the east towards open country and
entered Salmon’s Lock, the first on our journey. Because we were
locking uphill the lock chamber was empty, and the cavernous
walls of dripping brick rose high above our deck with only a few

53

NARROW BOAT

54

inches to spare on either side- When we had closed the bottom
gate behind us and raised the top sluices or ‘paddles’, the pent-up
water thundered into the lock, foaming about ‘Cressy’s’ bow like
a mill race, so that the bright paintwork glistened with spray. This
is the spectacular and satisfying reward for the labour of lifting the
heavy paddles, a sight I have never tired of watching, seated on the
lock beam as the boat lifts gently upward. As the lock fills, calm
slowly returns to the water, untid only flecks of foam and little
eddying whirlpools remain, and the one sound is the gentle scrap-
ing of the rope bow fender against the lock gates. We always made
this labour of lockage a leisurely affair unless we were holding up
another boat, but the boatmen who have their living to earn work
their way throu^ with deceptive speed and send a member of the
crew hot foot along the tow-path to prepare the locks in advance.

When we moved out of the lock into the ‘pound’ above we soon
left all trace of Banbury’s outskirts behind, and found ourselves
winding through deserted water-meadows beside the Cherwell, our
only spectators the cattle on the banks, who looked up from their
grazing to gaze in mild curiosity, wisps of lush grass protruding
from the corners of their mouths. No one who has not experi-
enced it can fully appreciate the unfailing fascination of this tran-
quil voyaging. The movement of the narrow boat is like nothing
else in the world; as Temple Thurston so aptly wrote, ‘it is no
motion, or it is motion asleep’. Stand on ‘Cressy’s’ fore deck with
eyes closed, and no sense of motion is left, open them and you see
the bluff bows gliding over the still water, while the ever-changing
scene of trees and hills, fields and farms drifts past at so measured
a pace that the eye has full time to ponder every detail. These
spells of idleness are made more pleasurable because they alternate
with the labour at the locks, and we passed through three more
before we came to Cropredy at five o’clock that evening. Here we
bade farewell to Mr. Tooley, watching his bent figure hurrying
over the bridge and up the village street to catch the Banbury bus
until his familiar bowler hat bobbed out of sight.

Cropredy is not a canal village. The fine church, with its beacon
tower, and the street of thatched stone cottages that slopes down
to the canal bridge were old in 1644, when they watched the
plumed cavaliers sweep by in brave array to do battle for King
Charies in the meadows by the CherweU. Yet the gulf of years
narrows with age, so that Cropredy has come to accept the
dreaming beneath its old brick bridge, as a part of itself, for it is
a hundred and sixty years since the first boat passed by.

BANBURY TO BRAUNSTON

55

Later that evening we walked to the sign of ‘The Red Lion’
half-way up the street, and found a village inn of the best type
which has escaped both stuffy Victorianism and the olde-worlde
reconstruction of our own age. The bar parlour was as simple and
unpretentious as it had always been : a stone-flagged floor, benches
and tables of wood whitened by constant scouring, and a great
open fireplace with its crane and ratchet hooks, sunken ash-pit and
snug seats beneath the yawning chimney breast. Our beer was
drawn straight from the wood in the cellar, so cool that mist
formed on the glass. We sat drinking contentedly in this quiet
place, listening to the leisurely quarter chime of the church clock
and trying to decipher one of the old puzzle cards, once so popular
in country inns, which hung on the wall opposite, yellowed by
years of exposure to shag-tobacco smoke.

* Here’s to Pa!’ it ran, ‘nds Pen Da S

0 Cl alh OURin ha? R.M.

Les Smi rT Ha! ND Fu nle T fr;

1 E nds HIPRE ign B eju, St. an

d Kin, dan Devil sPe,Ak of N One.’

The moral sentiment is excellent, but beyond this I can give no
clue, for beneath it in heavy type was the clause: ’N.B. NO
TEACHING ONE ANOTHER TO READ THE ABOVE
UNDER FORFEITURE OF A QUART OF THE LAND-
LORD’S BEST ALE.’ A translation in print would therefore be
unpardonable, and render me liable for at least a barrel should
I visit ‘The Red Lion’ again.

We returned to a hot diimer on board which would have been
an excellent meal in any place, but was a veritable banquet in such
circumstances and surroundings. Banbury and the famiUar boat-
yard seemed already far away, although we had journeyed only
five and a half miles. Yet herein lies the value of canal travel, and
the de^ core of truth in old Jim Harwood’s reply to the cocksure
policeman : for if man had never discovered the mechanical arts
by which he annihilates space and time he might never have
acquired that tragic contempt for local environment, custom and
tradition which has led him to break faith with the land. Man has
built himself wings before he has fully learned how to walk.

The canal veers away from the river beyond Cropredy, climbing
out of the valley in leisurely fashion through Broadmoor, Varney’s
and Elkington’s locks, then more steeply through a flight of five
near the village of Qaydon. When we left Claydon top lock the
next morning we entered the highest section of the Oxford canal.

NARROW BOAT

56

or the ‘summit level’, as it is called, which cuts across the limestone
ridge at its lowest and narrowest point between Mill Hill and
Shirne Hill near the villages of Fenny Compton and Worm-
leighton. The deep cutting through this high ground was originally
a tunnel, and although it was opened out many years ago, it is still
so called by the boatmen who have long memories. When we
emerged from ‘the tunnel’ and swung right-handed to follow the
slope of the edge, the view opened out with Burton Dassett post-
mill on its bare hill standing sentinel above the broad upper valley
of the Itchen. The canal leaves the village of Fenny Compton a
mile to westward, and the boatmen’s ‘Fenny’ consists solely of a
disused wharf and ‘The George and Dragon’ Inn, a large white-
washed building which, though it stands on the very edge of the
canal, has no water supply, drinking-water being supplied in jars
by the brewers. Here we stopped for tea, as by this time it was late
afternoon, and we finally moored for the night by Griffin’s Bridge
under the arc of Wormleighton Hill. Throu^ a screen of trees on
the hill-top we could just discern the roofs of the village, and
resolved to walk up to it the following morning.

Lost in woodland away from main roads, the centuries have
passed lightly over Wormleighton with no more stir than a flight
of birds. Villages such as this— a cluster of cottages of brick, stone
and thatch, a manor house and a farm or two— are -the simple
roots of England. The manor, which is now a farm, sleeps under
the tall elms, dreaming of more spacious days.

‘Like some last courtier at a gipsy camping place

Babbling of fallen majesty, records what’s gone.’

Its magnificent detached gatehouse of stone bears proudly the
arms of England and the escutcheon of the Spencers, but the grass
grows long about it. In the old church not far distant there is a
tablet to the memory of a son of Earl Spencer who died at Blois in
1619. The words look so newly graven, and so ageless is the spirit
of the place, that three hundred years seaned but a little span.

On the crest of the long, narrow promontory which Worm-
lei^ton Hill thrusts out into the valley of the Itchen there stands
a solitary farmhouse which must be a very familiar landmark to
Oxford Canal boatmen. As we left Griffin’s bridge it lay dead
^ead of us, but we preswitly turned westward and passed it on the
right hand. When we reached the point of the headland the canal
made another turn so sharp that ‘Cressy’ swung round in her own

BANBURY TO BRAUNSTON

57

length, and we passed the farm once more, this time on the other
side of the hill. As the now familiar buildings fell astern we
thought we had surely seen the last of them, but no, they presently
reappeared for the third time, now once more ahead of us. We had
completed a full circle of nearly three miles and come within half
a mile of our starting point. For mile after mile we wound about
in this fashion, following the irregular contour of the land, the
way so tortuous that we lost all sense of direction. A canal bridge
would appear surprisingly in a most improbable position only one
field away, and half an hour later we would pass under it, or dis-
cover that we had done so some time before. Figures prove that
this is no exaggeration, for the summit level from Claydon to
Marston Doles is eleven miles long, and yet it is only four and a
half as the crow flies, or six by road. It has been said that the roll-
ing English drunkard made the rolling English road, but there is
not a wandering lane that can vie with the canals in this respect,
and this meandering is a great part of their charm. Like the old
roads, they were built before the age of hurry, and the way in
which they follow the lie of the land is particularly characteristic
of the earlier waterways built or surveyed by James Brindley, the
father of the English canals. Samuel Smiles in his biography of
this pioneer says : ‘He would rather go round an obstacle in the
shape of an elevated range of country, than go through it. Although
the length of canal to be worked was longer, yet the cost of tun-
nelling and lockage was avoided. Besides, the population of the
district was fully accommodated.’ The italics are in the original.

No road could be so solitary as this canal, for in the whole
day’s journey we met only one fellow traveller, Alfred Hone, on
his weekly journey to Banbury with coal. We exchanged greet-
ings and news as- we came abreast, continuing in rising voices as
our boats slowly drew apart. Doubtless he would pass on the
information to other boatmen that he had met ‘Cressy’ ‘up eleven-
mile pound’. In this way news travels with surprising swiftness
over hundreds of miles of canal.

Not another soul did we see until a carroty-haired boy came
out of a cottage by the waterside at Marston Doles to set the lock
for us. This was ‘Napton Top’, the first of a flight of nine, their
gates so decrepit and weatherworn that it seemed a push would
send them toppling into the water. The process now was reversed,
‘Cressy’ coming into a full lock and slowly sinking downwards as
the water rushed into the pound below. Nine locks take some

* Wb Met only One Fellow-Traveller '

BANBURY TO BRAUNSTON 59

time to negotiate, so that it was evening by the tune we reached
the bottom to moor by the village of Napton-on-the-Hill.

This must surely be the strangest village in all Warwickshire, a
translation in brick of the stone villages of the South Cotswold
valleys. The church stands on the top of the hill, and the cottages,
connected by breakneck lanes or cobbled paths, look as though
they were strug^g to climb the steep slope towards it, seeking
salvation. A derelict tower mill also crowns the hill, looking across
to its fellow at Burton Dassett, and the canal curved so closely
beneath the slope that our moorings were almost in the shadow
of the gaunt sails.

It was here that we found our first canal inn.

Approached by a rough track, it stood in the fields on the side
of the canal away from the village, and, with outbuildings grouped
around the house, it looked like a smaU farm, except for the faded
sign of ‘The Bull and Butcher’ over the door. Inns such as this ful-
fil the same purpose as the great posting-houses of coaching days,
for they are recognized ‘stages’ on the water roads where many
generations of boatmen have been accustomed to tie up and stable
their horses for the night. Today they are fast going the way of
their great predecessors, for the motor-boat is emptying &eir
stables and bar parlours. Though the motor travels little faster
than the horse, it does not tire, so that once-familiar moorings
become filled up with mud, the rings rusty from long disuse, while
far into the night the boats pass by.

Thanks to the survival of horse-drawn traffic on the Oxford
Canal, ‘The Bull and Butcher’ has been more fortunate than many
inns we encoimtered subsequently, and we had not been long at
our moorings before the first waj^arer arrived and led his horse
over the bridge to the stable. By the time dusk fell there were half
a dozen boats moored beside us, the womenfolk standing at their
cabin doors exchanging gossip while they polished brasses,
mopped paintwork or peeled potatoes. Children called shrilly to
each other and dogs padded eagerly to and fro along the gang-
planks, whining to get ashore. There was a pervasive odour from
some simmering stew-pot, and the smoke from the brass-bound
stove chimneys rose straight in the windless evening air.

It was dark and there was a thin cry of bats when we walked
down to ‘The Bull and Butcher’ after dinner. By the light of a
paraffin lamp the landlord was pouring beer out of a tall enamelled
jug, He was more of a farmer than a publican, big-boned and

NARROW BOAT

60

swarthy, his shirt sleeves leaving his bronzed forearms bare to the
elbow. Two boat captains in dark corduroys were playing a game
of five-O'One on the dartboard. Each wore a gold ring in one ear,
which gleamed in the lamplight and lent them an appearance that
was strangely foreign. They were joined presently by their wives,
who sat on a bench apart, drinking stout and conversing in subdued
undertones. There was no interchange of conversation between
the two groups, for mixed drinking is not a principle of the canal
folk. Here it was permitted on sufferance because there was only
one licensed room.

Beside the fireplace there stood a skittle table which appeared
to have been ousted from popular favour by the dartboard. This
game is played in the same manner as the better-known alley
game, its advantage being that it requires little space. The nine-
pins are set upon the table, which is protected by a padded back
and a suspended net. The oval wooden ‘cheese’, measuring approxi-
mately four inches in diameter by two inches thick, is then thrown
at them from a distance of about eight feet. There is considerable
skill and sleight of wrist in the way a good local exponent filings
the curiously shaped missile and often scores a ‘fioorer’ by striking
the leading pin at precisely the right angle and strength. The game
has a definite regional character, for I doubt whether it will be
found outside a radius of twenty miles of Northampton.

The subject of these old country games is of great interest, and
one about which little has been written. Soon many of them
be forgotten, for the dartboard is rapidly becoming ubiquitous,
aided and abetted by elaborate electrical pin tables. Some districts
still staunchly support their local skittle alleys, while in others the
old games of quoits and shove-hal^enny are still popular. I know
of one village in Cheshire where they favour an original bagatelle
board, while in certain parts of Shropshire they play dominoes
wi4 a double set of chips ranging up to double-twelve. In the low-
ceilinged bar of an inn at Burbage, a Wiltshire village in Savemake
Forest, they still play ‘Ringing the Bull’ ; a copper bull ring hangs
suspended by a cord from a hook in the rafters and has to be swung
over a peg on the wall. This simple game is said to be the oldest
survivor of aU, a contemporary perhaps of the ‘Nine Men’s Morris’.
The dedine of these games is contemporaneous vwth that of all the
other rural arts, a decline that had begun even in Shakespeare’s

Mra’s Morris is jfiUed up with mud.

And the quaint mazes of the wanton green
For lack of tread are undistinguishablc/

BANBURY TO BRAUNSTON

61

Just before we left ‘The Bull and Butcher’ a newcomer entered
the bar bearing the largest mushroom we had ever seen. There
was great controversy as to its size, which was eventually settled
when a ruler was produced and it was found to measure just over
a foot in diameter. Such giants are not uncommon, we were told,
in the meadows below Napton Hill, and as we rose to go we were
presented with two which were only slightly smaller. Next day
Angela stewed them, as we had been directed — ^not without mis-
givings, it must be admitted, although we found them excellent
eating.

We heard the patter of rain on our cabin roof that night, but
when we climbed up Napton HiU in the morning the sun was shin-
ing brightly and a fresh breeze was blowing a white fleece of
clouds overhead, which patterned the green slopes with their
swiftly chasing shadows. The climb was well repaid. Immediately
below us the canal swept round the base of the hill in a horseshoe
curve like a moat about a castle mound, and beyond lay the War-
wickshire Plain, a grand expanse of rolling country so richly set
with great trees that from this vantage it was easy to believe that
there was still a forest in Arden. The wind drummed in our ears
as only a wind can that blows imchecked over leagues of open
country ; it hissed through the bending summer grasses and set the
bare sails of the mill creaking and straining impotently. Inside the
tower of the mill was a sorry sight, the staunch wooden gearing and
the drive-shafts, thick as a stout tree, were still in place, but the
stones were gone and the floor had become no more than a rubbish
dump and a roost for chickens. Pigeons had made their cote in
the cupola, and their murmuring mingled with the whistle of the
wind to make a plaintive duet most fitting to this airy ruin. There
is no more eerie or more desolate place than a disused wind- or
water-miU, especially when the old machinery remains to speak of
past activity. Seeing them, so simple in construction and opera-
tion, and yet so lastingly wrought, one marvels that man has seen
fit to abandon their tireless elemental powers in favour of the
intricate, short-lived internal-combustion engine, which is depen-
dant upon a fuel destined one day to become exhausted. Napton
Mill is at once a symbol and an epitaph : a symbol of broken faith
with the soil, an epitaph to the golden com which once waved in
the neglected pastures below.

Journeying on that afternoon, we passed the brickfield which is
eating its way into the western slope of the hill, and presently came
to the junction of the Warwick and Napton Canal. This waterway

62

NARROW BOAT

and the five miles of the Oxford Canal to Braunston have become
a part of the Grand Union Company’s through route between
London and Birmingham. It was obvious that we had emerged
from a by-way on to a main road, for the channel was wider and
deeper, while instead of reedy margins the banks were set with
concrete piling to resist the wash of many motor-boats. Although
something of the charm of the less-frequented canal was lacking,
we found moorings that could not have been bettered, in a belt of
tall elm trees by the village of Lower Shuckburgh. The village itself
was an undistinguished row of brick cottages strung along a main
road, but of this we were out of sight and sotmd, separated by the
trees and the breadth of a paddock.

Having swept the sky clear of clouds, the wind had dropped, as
it so often does at the going down of the sun, and it was a perfect
summer’s evening. We dined on the fore deck, watched with mild,
wide-eyed curiosity by two young bullocks who thrust their wet
muzzles through the fence, almost touching ‘Cressy’s’ bow, while
hi^ overhead a thrush made music for us, pouring out a tireless
cascade of song. I have often listened to nightingales in Hampshire
coverts, yet I still consider the thrush and the blackbird better
songsters. Beside theirs, the nightingale’s song lacks depth and
feeling, so that I doubt if it would have won such renown did it
not sing when other birds are silent.

Till now I had found it dMcult to realise fully that the years of
waiting and planning had at last come to an end, and that we were
actually established in a floating home with hundreds of miles of
water before us upon which to roam at will. I began to appreciate
this fact that night as I lay in the mellowing influence of a hot
bath. The fresh smell of dew-laden grass drifted in through the
open >mdow at my side, and a low, large moon silvered the water.
The night was so still that every leaf of the dark trees hung in
motionless silhouette, like stage scenery against an immense starry
horizon. How else, I reflected, could we have approached so near
the heart of the country? At times like this the discomforts of
camping are bathos, the motor-car a most monstrous anachronism,
and a hotel bedroom a stuffy prison. ‘Cressy’, on the other hand,
seem^ to become so at one with her peaceful surroundings that
even in the dark of our sleeping-cabin the summer night was close
about us. The end of the day brought no anti-climax, no closing
of doors.

The Long Buckby Can

Chapter X

THE GRAND UNION CANAL

Braunston, with its single street of great length strung along the
crest of a low hill ridge above the canal, is typical of the large
villages in this part of the world. At the end of the ridge stands the
church, whose tall spire is a landmark for many miles westward;
beside it an old tower mill bereft of sails. But it was at the opposite
end of the village that we found what struck me as the most
curious feature of the place. Here the even rank of houses, some
of brick, others of Northamptonshire stone, was broken in a most
surprising and irrelevant manner by a single diminutive cottage
perched upon the strip of greensward flanking the road. A small
patch of the common had been enclosed about it, and it had been
planted so impudently before its neighbour’s doors that only the
narrowest of cobbled alleyways separated them. Surely this up-
start must be a product of that ancient custom, rooted in the
granting of land to bowmen in recognition of their war services,
by which a man mi^t claim a holding on common land provided
he had one chimney smoking between sunset and sunrise. Whether
true or not, it was easy here to visualise dark figures feverishly and
furtively at work upon the green at dead of ni^t, and to picture
the chagrin of the villagers on looking out the next morning to see
a crazy shack sprung up before their doors, its rickety chinmey
smoking derisivdy.

We left the Orford Canal for the Grand Union at Braunston
Junction, passed by Nurser’s Boatyard, where a new wooden boat

63

NARROW BOAT

64

lay partially completed on the stocks, and so came to the first of
the six locks by which the canal ascends to Braunston Tunnel.
These were heavier and more complicated to work than those on
the Oxford Canal, being wide locks capable of passing two narrow
boats at a time. The gates are therefore more massive, and, in
addition, they are equipped with what are called ‘side-ponds’ to
economise water. One of these ‘ponds’ is constructed beside each
lock at a level midway between the upper and lower pounds of the
canal, and by means of the ‘side-pond paddle’, half the contents of
a full lock can be discharged into it The paddle is then dropped,
so that this water is stored in the pond, and can subsequently be
used again to half-fill the empty lock. In this way half a lock of
water is saved, an economy which is worth the additional outlay
involved, for each lock holds no less than 56,000 gallons, all of
which would otherwise have to be supplied by the summit level of
the canal each time a boat passed through.

When we reached the top lock we could see the black mouth of
the ttuinel ahead of us. It is over a mile in length, and, like the
majority of canal tunnels, has no towing path. To relieve horse-
boat captains of the tedious and heavy task of ‘legging’ their way
through, the Company used to run a service of steam tugs which
plied to a regular time-table, but these were withdrawn from ser-
vice four years ago, owing to the decline of horse-drawn traffic,
the little that remains having to rely on obtaining a tow from a
friendly motor-boat. The tunnel is straight, and occasionally in
clear weather it is just possible to discern in the dark depths the
pinpoint of light which is the opposite mouth ; more often, how-
ever, it is obscured by the hazy atmosphere and the smoke of
cabin fires.

Navigating a canal tuimel is an odd experience, the first difficulty
being to keep a straight course. Anyone who has experienced a
temporary blindness on entering a dark cinema from broad day-
li^t will be able to appreciate this. The stern of the boat is lit by
the light streaming in through the mouth of the tunnel, but the
bow, seventy feet ahead, is swallowed up in an impenetrable dark-
ness which the eye strains in vain to pierce. Sense of direction is
temporarily lost, and by a curious illusion the boat appears to be
swinging rapidly in a drcle. The secret is to hold a straight course
mtil the eye becomes accustomed to the dark, for if one obeys the
instinctive urge to correct these imaginary gyrations, the boat starts
to ‘weave’, the bow cannoning from one wall to the other with a

THE GRAND UNION CANAL

65

series of frightening, echoing thuds. This unpleasant proceeding
becomes positively dangerous if another boat happens to be ap-
proaching, for there is only just passing room. In order to over-
come this diflSculty as far as possible, I had equipped ‘Cressy’ with
a wide beam electric headlamp which could be quickly mounted on
a suitable bracket on the fore end of the cabin top, and plugged in
to a convenient socket. Even so, the first few hundred yards were
diflficult going, imtil I managed to pick out the arch of the roof
illumined by the lamp. Meanwhile the sound of our engine and
churning screw, normally almost unnoticeable, was prodigiously
magnified by the hollow reverberations from the walls,-and ice-cold
showers of water feU at intervals from the mouldering bricks over-
head, which were festooned with stalactites. Most of these minia-
ture waterfalls seemed to find their way with unerring accuracy
down the back of my neck, so on entering subsequent tunnels I
always took care to put on a mackintosh. At intervals there were
ventilation shafts, the wan beams of light which rayed downwards
from them through the murky atmosphere making lonely l umin ous
pools in the darkness. By imperceptible degrees the tiny speck of
h^t ahead became a vivid miniature of green banks and sunlit
water, until we finally emerged from the southern portal by Weston
Wharf after twenty minutes imderground.

A further half-hour brought us within sight of Norton Junction,
near Long Buckby, where our short journey over England’s busiest
inland waterway came to an end. Here we moored ‘Cressy’ by the
toll office at the Junction, and walked on down the tow-path of
the main canal to Buckby Wharf, where I knew that we should
find a canal shop with painted water-cans for sale.

This insignificant little shop standing beside Buckby top lock has
customers all over England ; there is scarcely a boat tratog down
to Brentford or Paddington Basin that does not carry a Buckby
can, and I have recognised their distinctive style on boat-decks in
every county in the Midlands. For many of the boatmen they are
the only outlet left for their instinctive love of colour, because the
large canal-carrying companies who handle the bulk of the Lon-
don-Birmingham traffic no longer budget for castles and flowers,
but paint their boats in uniform colours of blue and maroon or
red and green. The cans are expensive, but it would never occur
to the boatman that a galvanised bucket would answer the purpose
equally well, because he has a different and truer sense of values.
So he buys his painted can by instalments, paying a shilling

66 NARROW BOAT

or two each time he passes by, the agreement being one of mutual
trust.

The old shopkeeper shuflEled out of the back regions in response
to the clang of the doorbell. It was obvious that he had been a
broad, powerfully built man before age had bent him, also, from
the way he peered at us, that he was almost blind. At first he was
inclined to be surly, but when we explained that we wished to pur-
chase a water-can and dipper, and had duly admired them, he
unbent towards us, seating himself on a stool behind the counter.
He used to paint the cans himself, he told us, but he confessed
sadly that his sight no longer enabled him to do such fine work,
and now they were painted for him at Braunston. He went on to
deplore the modem conditions which compelled the boatmen to
work all hours seven days a week, to the detriment of his trade,
recalling wistfully the more leisured days when they were ‘steady
fellows, and tied up of a Sunday’. Cans were not his only speci-
ality, for he presently produced a cup and saucer for our inspec-
tion. It was modern, cheap-quality earthenware, but decorated
with an interesting and possibly traditional Chinese design, of a
type common to very early ‘China’. He explained proudly that this
was his special pattern, made for him, and obtainable nowhere
else.

‘You’ll see plenty of them London way,’ he declared, as if to
say that no visitor to London could escape seeing a specimen, and
we felt that Long Buckby had set London fimaly in its place. All
the while he was talking he fiddled with a small brush, brushing
his ears and his bushy moustache, a curious mannerism which
attracted us with an awful, hypnotic fascination. When eventually
we took leave of him he showed us to the door, still talking
volubly, and by this time brushing his shaggy eyebrows.

Interesting and unique though the Buckby shop undoubtedly is,
it does not compare in attraction or variety of stock with another
canal shop I knew of at Stoke Bmeme, sixteen miles south. It was
one of a row of thatched stone cottages along the tow path, and
its cool, stone-flagged interior boasted so varied a stock as to call
to mind the proud boast of Flecker’s Merchant Grocer at the
Gate of the Moon :

‘We have rose-candy, we have spikenard.

Mastic and Terebinu and oil and spice
Md such sweet jams meticulously jarred
As God’s own prophet eats in paradise.’

THE GRAND UNION CANAL

67

This shop specialised in ropes and lines. Coils of every thickness
and quality, from coarsest manilla to finest white cotton, lay piled
on the floor or hung from the low, whitewashed rafters of the ceil-
ing. Yet this was only the principal item of a stock that catered
for the boat family’s every need. Here was a great basket full of
crusty cottage loaves, there shelves of tea, jams and other groceries
were crowded between piles of crockery, fat earthenware teapots
and pendant festoons of hurricane lamps, kettles and saucepans.
For the ailing there were herbal remedies, salves, liniments and
pills a-plenty; clay pipes, shag tobacco, braces and boots for the
menfolk; aprons, buttons, hairpins and combs for their wives;
while for the children there were liquorice bootlaces, sherbert
suckers and great glass jars fiOded with enticing, gaudy-coloured
sweets, buUs-eyes, aniseed balls and gob-stoppers. In the heyday
of the horse-boat the shop was well placed, for the souftem
entrance of Blisworth Tunnel was visible from the threshold, and
the tunnel tug had a well-chosen mooring before the door of the
mn opposite. Here the north-bound boats would wait for the tug,
and when it appeared the south-bound boats in its train would in
turn wait until the string of horses came over the hill. Now all
that is changed. Like the deserted inns, the canal shop is another
victim of the time-saving mania, and two years ago Stoke Brueme’s
magic store closed its doors forever. Before very long the shop at
Buckby will follow it, because the boatman no longer has the time
to stand and stare.

That night at Norton, long after darkness had fallen, the motor-
boats passed by the mouth of the jimction. We could hear the
penetrating and unmistakable beat of their diesel engines, the
rattle of paddle ratchets at the lock, and watch their lights creeping
along the lip of the embankment A Grand Union boat south-
ward bound with a cargo of coal; a pair of Fellows Mortons
going North, perhaps with fifty tons of sugar from the Pool of
London— ‘Fly-boats’, most of them, making the journey of a hun-
dred and thirty-six miles and one hundred and sixty-one locks in
fifty-seven hours. No idle journey this, with two boats to handle—
the motor and the towed ‘butty boat’— under every condition of
wind and weather. We fell asleep with the sound of the boats in
our ears.

The Staircase, Foxton

Chapter XI
THE ‘LEICESTER CUT’

Cut’, S the boatmeTcSl

sTdlhbeStely

it has increased slightly of recSt
ascent of Sen iWow S

change of level Watford. The

another of lock This wnc th involving the use of yet

of one iXbSg SJSorJ?® gate

was no intemediate nound^f^^

nneoiate pound ^tween them. Grouped in sets

VQ

THE ‘LEICESTER CUT’

69

of two or three, they resemble a flight of gigantic steps climbing
the hillside. There were two pairs of ‘risers’ at Watford, and when
we had worked our way through them there lay before us twenty
miles of summit level four hundred feet above the sea. Just as we
were moving out of the summit lock we saw a horse-boat coming
in to the first of the fli^t, so when we came to the tree-girt mouth
of Crick tunnel a little way ahead we moored up and had tea,
thinking to offer the boatman a tow through, and so save him
the wearisome job of ‘legging’. What became of him we shall never
know— perhaps he also stopped for refreshment— for he did not
appear, so, when a thimderstorm rolled up unexpectedly, we
dived into the mile-long tunnel for shelter. As we approached the
northern end we could see vivid flashes of lightning and torrential
rain lashing the water, so I put ‘Cressy’ astern and we sheltered
in flie tunnel mouth imtil the storm passed as quickly as it had
come, the sun sailing clear of the towering cumulus clouds. Canal
tunnels have their uses.

We made a brief halt at the disused Crick Wharf while we
obtained a supply of milk and eggs from a nearby farm, before
continuing our journey over this lost and lonely waterway. So
far removed were we from the walks and works of man that we
might have floated out of time; it became difficult to credit the
existence of cities, and more probable that the canal would lead
us to some enchanted Avilon ‘fair with orchard lawns’, than to
prosaic Leicester. Tall rushes and flags of innumerable varieties
lined the margins, growing so far into the water, and leaving a
channel so narrow that on approaching some of the endless turns
it looked as thou^ the canal would disappear altogether. Yet
the travelling was better than that on many canals of twice the
apparent width, for the Water was deep and clear, and hour by
hour ‘Cressy’ kept her effortless ^ding pace, only the laziest of
ripples fanning from her bows as she swung easily this way or that,
following a tortuous course among the folds of the hills. Though
we sighted an occasional farmhouse or an isolated labourer’s
cottage, our only companions, other than the cattle or sheep
grazing by the water’s edge, were the birds. Coot and moorhen
fled to the shelter of the rushes with a furious commotion of beat-
ing wings, indignant clucking and frantically paddling feet. Swans
sailed by with an air of aloof, slightly offended dignity, while
every now and again a heron would wheel away, borne up with
dffordess grace on great grey pinions. As the thrush excels in song,

NARROW BOAT

70

SO, surely, does the heron in flight. The swan loses her dignity
in the air— the take-off is laboured, wings flapping and feet lashing
the water, while when in flight the action is ungainly, the long neck
craning forward as though out of balance. The heron, on the
other hand, rises into the air as lightly and swiftly as blown
thistledown ; the slow beat of the wings is full of rhythmic grace and
the poise magnificent, the neck laid back and the legs extended to
make a perfectly horizontal line, like long tail-feathers.

Our first night out of Norton was spent at a disused wharf
near Yelvertoft village, and the second in a wooded cutting
near the mouth of the tunnel at delightfully named Husbands
Bosworth. Before reaching these moorings we had crossed the
headwaters of the Avon by an aqueduct, and passed the junction
of the short branch canal to Welford. Probably few people realise
that there are two Welfords upon Avon, for this is not the well-
known village between Bidford and Stratford, with its famous
maypole and luscious raspberry canes, but an unassuming place
on the Leicestershire-Northamptonshire border where the Avon
is scarcely broader than a man’s stride. Very occasionally a coal-
boat trades to Welford, but the insignificant branch is of great
importance in another respect, for it is a valuable ‘feeder’, supply-
ing the Leicester Section, and through it the main line of the
Grand Union, with water from two reservoirs on the ill-fated
wolds of Naseby. This provision of an adequate supply of water
to the summit is one of the lesser-known aspects of canal con-
strugtion and maintenance, and is often a source of great difficulty
during a long drought. On one su9h occasion the canal company
were compelled to take the drastic step of draining the whole
of this twenty-mile ‘pound’ into the main line in order to keep
the latter navigable.

Midway between this junction and ffe tunnel is North Kilworth
Wharf, where Mr. Woodhouse keeps the only inn on the canal.
He is a boatman like his father before him, and the infrequent
wayfarers almost invariably pause to drink a pint and pass the time
of day with him even if they cannot arrange their journey so as to
moor for the night beside his own boats at the wharf. Like ‘The BuU
and Butcher’, it was a friendly, intimate place, with an atmosphere
poles apart from that of the drab and impersonal urban drink-
shop. It was a damp, dreary evening of low-flying cloud and driving
rain-squalls when we called, and at such a time there is no more
pleasant place in which to be than a hospitable country inn. The

‘ A Wooded Cuttino near the Mouth of the Tunnel ’

NARROW BOAT

72

bar more nearly resembled a kitchen, with its stone-flagged floor,
scrubbed table top, and wide fireplace a-glitter with copper and
brass highly polished in real canal fashion. We were very well
content to sit drinking our cellar-drawn beer, listening to Mr.
Woodhouse as he talked of canals past and present, while the
burnished metal about the hearth awoke in the firelight to a lambent
bloom that no modem plate or stainless metal can ever equal.

Although this countryside would appear attractive enough to
the townsman, there is a tragedy in its solitude which reveals itself
to the more discerning eye in the deserted sheep-walks, the endless
fields of ridge and furrow that have reverted to pasture, the un-
trimmed hedgerows, choked ditches and gates drunkenly leaning.
The husbandman has abandoned his heritage for the get-rich-quick
lure of the industrial towns of the Midlands. We met some of this
new generation of ‘countrymen’ as we walked from the wharf
to the village of North Rilworth. The evening train had just
brought them back from some factory or other, and they were
hurrying homeward with their tin lunch-cases tucked under their
arms. After this foretaste we were not surprised to find that the
village epitomised the story of the deserted fields. The cottages,
once thatched, had, almost without exception, been re-roofed
with corrugated iron, while many stood empty and ruinous. The
characteristic wattle walls, once also capped with thatch, were
alike crumbling to ruin, their gaps filled with hurdles or wire. The
rural ^s had gone with the old rural community, and the village
was dispirited and dead, the only new life a row of unsightly
bungalows which had sprung up along the main road conveniently
near the station. Before our journey was over we were destined to
see many more of these tragic epitaphs of broken faith which are
the result of ‘the drift to the towns’, and were able to forecast the
proximiy of large towns without the aid of a map by the noticeable
impoverislment of the country around them.

It is true that at one point not far from North Kilworth we saw a
large pasture being broken up for plough, but the way in which
this task was being performed belonged to the factory, not to the
fields. A most monstrous machine the height of a house was
drawing itsdf over the ridge and furrow on caterpillar tracks
larger than any tank. The simile, indeed, was fitting, mun having
apparently declared war on Nature and brought up his heavy
artillery. In the tail of the machine two sets of revolving steel finai,
eadi as long and thick as a man’s arm, were tearing the ground

THE ‘LEICESTER CUT*

73

like vast talons. High up under a canopy in a haze of pungent
diesel exhaust fumes the modem husbandman, a mechanic in
blue overalls, sat before a host of levers, as far removed from the
land as a passenger on a luxury liner is from the sea. The roaring
of the engine, the groaning of gears and the dull rumbling sound
of the steel claws as they tore through the ground, combined to
make a din that shattered the silences for half a mile around, so
that I was thankful when we passed out of earshot. The advant-
age of these ponderous and costly machines is extremely doubtful ;
that no machine will ever replace the thatch on the roofs of North
Kilworth, lay the hedges, rebuild tiie walls, or build a sound farm
gate, is quite certain.

It was still raining when we cast off next morning and entered
Husbands Bosworth Tunnel, but by the tiihe we reached daylight
once more the sky was clearing, and before long the sun came out.
This was fortunate, because scenically these last few miles of this
long summit level were the best of the twenty. The steep, bracken-
covered slopes of the Laughton Hills rose sheer from the water’s
edge as the canal wound along their flank, and, opposite, the
land shelved away more gradually into the shallow upper valley of
the Welland. As we journeyed on, the hills became more gentle of
contour and covered with woodland, to fall away altogether just
before noon when we sighted the whitewashed cottage which I
knew marked the top of Foxton Locks.

The descent at Foxton is greater and even steeper than the ascent
at Watford, there being no less than five pairs of staircase locks
having a combined fall of seventy-five feet. So abrupt is the change
of level that when we first sighted the summit lock, the long beams
with their white painted ends stood out boldly against the open
sky until, on closer approach, a wide expanse of the Leicestershire
plain came into view below. The paddles of these locks were
extremely heavy, and we were assisted on our way down by the
lock-keeper, who had a windlass with an extra long crank, made
especially for the purpose. He was a most kindly and helpful old
man, having only one leg, but with the aid of a single crutch he
made his way about the locks with most remarkable agility and
speed, balancing himself dextrously on his solitary foot when he
wound up the paddles.

Such a concentration of narrow locks takes some time to
negotiate, and constitutes a serious hindrance to trafiSc, because
boats are unable to pass each other except between the groups

NARROW BOAT

74

of ‘risers’. It was with the object of obviating this delay that the
Foxton Inclined Plane Lift was constructed and opened for trafiBc
in the spring of 1900. Of all the many strange freaks that the
mechanical age has produced, this was one of the strangest, and
the photographs of the extraordinary contrivance which hang in
the bar of ‘The Black Horse’ in Foxton are well worth inspection.
It consisted of two enormous cast-iron caissons, each capable of
floating two narrow boats, these being mounted upon ten wheels
which ran on five parallel sets of rails laid down the inclined plane.
These were raised and lowered sideways by means of cables, one
coimterbalandng the other, a winding engine being employed
for the extra power required. Unfortunately the rails were
constantly giving way beneath the colossal weight of the caissons,
and the Mrequent traflic did not justify the expense of manning the
engine-house or keeping a boiler constantly under steam, with the
result that after a very few years had elapsed, the lift was abandoned
as a costly failure, AU that we saw of it, apart from the two short
backwaters that connected the canal to it, was a steep ramp of
crumbling concrete up the face of the hill overgrown with briars,
and, on the summit, the ruins of the engine-house. Canal lifts
have never been widely employed, and the only one still in use today
is the Anderton Vertical Lift at Northwich, which lowers boats
from the Trent and Mersey Canal to the River Weaver, a fall
of fifty feet.

At the foot of the locks we joined the ‘broad’ canal from
Leicester to Market Harborou^, once an independent waterway
called the ‘Old Union’, but long ago merged into what is now the
Grand Union system. Here we turned aside from the main course
of our journey, having decided to make Market Harborough our
first port of call for letters, laundry, and general stores. Occasion-
ally a pdr of Fellows Morton boats, or ‘Joshers’ as they are
called on the canals, in affectionate remembrance of the late Mr.
Joshua Fellows, trades to Harborough basin with a cargo of timber
from Brentford, but the trade on the branch is very small. The
swing bridge by which the village street of Foxton crosses over the
water is kept locked, and die key, so the lock-keeper informed us,
hung in the porch the first cottage on our left turning down the
road. There seemedfto be some subtle magic in this key, for when
I walked up die flower-bordered path to the cottage door the street
was deseed, yet no sooner had I lifted it from its hiding-place
than the children of Foxton ^^eaxed miraculously from nowhere.

THE ‘LEICESTER CUT’

75

Evidently the opening of the bridge for the passage of a boat is for
them a unique and wondrous event. Some of the more sober
among them helped me to swing the bridge, but this assistance
was more than discounted by the majority, who jumped onto it
for a ride. There were shrill shrieks of excitement and delight,
and a total disregard for the admonitions of mothers who had come
to their cottage doors. We breathed a sigh of relief when we had
re-locked the bridge and passed out of sight, although, to do them
justice, they kept a respectful distance from the boat, unlike the
children of the towns whom we encountered later.

When we left Foxton we were reminded of the Oxford Canal
at Wormleighton, for although it was only two and a half miles
across country to Market Harborough, the canal described a wide
arc of nearly six miles round Gallow Hill, overhung by trees on
one side, with fine views over open country on the other. The water
was deep and crystal clear, but was in places so covered with dense
blanket weed as to appear a solid surface. This weed was too fine
to foul our propeller, but it repeatedly choked the strainer of
the engine cooling water intake, so that for a considerable part
of the way Angela looked after the helm while I lay flat on the
aft deck, with one arm trailing in the water clearing the weed away.
Such troubles only give an added zest to the navigation of little-
used canals such as this, and it was with a pleasant sense of minor
triumph that we sailed into Harborough Basin at noon of our ninth
day out from Banbury.

The Bottom Lock, Foxton

Chapter XIl

INTERLUDE AT MARKET HARBOROUGH

We had timed ouirselves to arrive in Market Harborough on
Market Day, for there is no better measure of the character of a
country town than this. Yet when we walked down the hill from
the canal basin, the wide main street of tall Queen Anne houses
was empty of the booths and jostling crowds we had expected.
The answer of a passer-by to om enquiry explained all, and
accurately summarised the position of the town today. ‘Go down
past that cinema,’ he directed, pointing, ‘and you’ll see the ’all.
It’s in there— what’s left of it.’ Following these instructions, we
found the sorry shadow of a market which revealed that rural
life in the district had fallen upon evil days. Our impression of
the country around North Kilworth was confibmed, and the town
mi^t as well call itself plain Harborough, for as a market town it is
dead. Its most active and prosperous institutions appeared to
be a corset manufactory, a canning works and several saddleries.
The inference is obvious ; stays and tinned soup have become more
profitable commodities than agricultural produce, while costly
saddles proclaim that though ‘the Shires’ may be falling to wrack
and ruin, they remain the playground of the fox-hunting rich.

We had a meal ashore in Market Harborough, dining one
evening at a hotel which has been made famous by its host,
whose unmistakable figure we had seen crossing the street when

76

INTERLUDE AT MARKET HARBOROUGH 77

we first entered the town. The house stands in the main street,
its plain but not unpleasing fafade of stucco enhanced by a well-
painted sign set in a frame of wrought-iron work so intricately
and cunningly forged that, though probably the work of a local
craftsman, it rivals the best Spanish workmanship. A wide arch-
way beneath, giving access to a cobbled courtyard, proclaimed a
coaching origin. We found the interior decoration a trifle bizarre
for our taste, yet because it displayed a certain independence
and originality of idea, attributes so sadly lacking today, we did
not feel disposed to criticise, individual taste, however eccentric,
being infinitely preferable to the pseudo or the modem super-
cinema style of which the eye soon sickens to the point of nausea.

For a very modest sum we were served with a dinner which fuUy
justified the reputation of the house, and which few London
restaurants could equal at many times the price. It must be a
difficult task to keep this kitchen supplied with aU its manifold
needs, and the meal proved that it was possible, by the use of
imagination, to escape from the inevitable roast-and-two-veg,
tinned soup and tinned fruit of the average country hotel dinner.
Yet, for all its^excellence, I was disappointed to find that the meal
was cosmopolitan in origin, and not, as I had hoped, a revival
of genuine English cooking, I have still to discover an inn where I
could confidently take a foreign friend to dine and say to him,
“This is English cooking”.

The culinary craft is yet another of the useful arts which have
suffered eclipse in recent years, for had not the self-sufficient
rural kitchen and all that it stood for been banished by the evil
genius of the can-opener, there would be no need today to intro-
duce foreign dishes in order to produce a good dinner. The average
cook knows less of the value of herbs, spices and seasonings than
did her forbear in the humblest farmhouse, and, what is more, she
has lost the art of taking pains. Gone are the bundles of thyme,
sage, agrimony and rosemary which once hung above the hearth ;
and what of tiie others : savory, chervil, fennel, marjoram and green
tarragon, whose fragrance lingers in their names? Their place has
been usurped by synthetic concentrates and ‘BuU-in-the-bottle’.

I would not make so bold as to presume to teach the twentieth-
century innkeeper his business, because I am fully aware of the
difficulties under which he labours, but this does not prevent me
from creating the ideal inn of my imagination. First and foremost,
I would free myself of the stranglehold of the big brewery com-

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panies by wMch most houses are literally ‘tied’. This would
enable me to make my choice of beer, or, better still, to brew myself
if I were able. Furthermore, I could then lay down a good cellar
of wine, as distinct from the vinegarish substances ‘bottled at the
brewery’ to promote the sale of inferior beer at the expense of the
Englishman’s palate. Meanwhile in my kitchen I should aim,
not only to re-create traditional En^h cooking in general, but
especially to preserve from oblivion those dishes peculiar to the
immediate locality of my house, and make these my speciality.
I wager that in this way I could obtain sufficient variety to satisfy
the most critical without borrowing ideas from abroad, and last,
but not least, my bill of fare would bespeak my dishes in plain
English, not in ‘menu-ese’, that ludicrous jargon which is a relic
of smug Victorian gentility.

I am afraid that such an inn will never exist in actual fact, and
that if it did it would prove a costly failure, so debased has popular
taste become. Meanwhile due credit should be given to my host
of Market Harborough for creating a house of character and dis-
tinction in an unpromising neighbourhood for such a venture.

Chapter XIII
LEICESTER

Because the city of Leicester has exerted its urban influence on
the countryside over a wide area, the sixteen miles of canal from
Foxton to Aylestone Mill within the city boundary had little to
commend them. The first few miles between the villages of Smeeton
Westerby and Gumley, perched upon its hill-top, were pleasant
enough, but when we emerged from Saddington Tunnel it was to
behold the first portent of things to come— a livid rash of jerry-
built houses surrounding Fleckney. A beautiful tree-bordered
pound by Wistow Park a mile or so beyond, and the sylvan
surroundings of Newton Harcourt, were the last outposts of a
countryside in retreat, for flie next village. South Wigston, had
become industrialised, a fragment of a city slum dropped in the
green fields, while Blaby was a typical urban dormitory. Railways,
power-lines and roads lined % ribbon development began to
converge on eilher hand, until as we approached the latter place
we sighted, standing beside the canal, what we at first took to be
an ultra-modern factory of the type which disgraces the Great
West Road. On closer approach, however, the building revealed
itself as a monster ‘gin-palace’, the ultimate apotheosis of brewers’
taste manifested in the super-dnema style. There could be no
doubt of its commerdal success, for the place was crowded with
the clerks, typists and mill-hands of Leicester, whfl^ ^ score of

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NARROW' BOAT

80

white-jacketed barmen hurried ceaselessly to and fro. Only
American slang can adequately convey the atmosphere ; it was ‘one
hundred per cent.’, in place of quality an overwhelming quantity
being substituted upon the same principle as the film producer’s
thousand extras, herd of stampeding elephants, or triple revolving
stages. In one vast room there was dancing in progress, and an
efifete young man was crooning into a microphone, his accent a
curious blend of natural Leicestershire and cultivated American.
In another, equally popular, there must have been at least a dozen
dart-boards. The huge expanse of car park was filled with small
saloons as like as a row of beans, and there was even a playground
where the future citizens of Leicester might disport themselves
while daddy sank a pint or so of draught bitter, and mummy
had a glass of nourishing stout, or sipped a more refined port and
lemon. The friendly, intimate atmosphere of the English inn was
entirely lackmg, and the quality of the beer was execrable.

From our position at the bar we could see ‘Cressy’ at her moor-
ings beside the tow path, and our drink was summarily interrupted
when we espied several boys of fourteen or fifteen years of age
clamber aboard and walk unconcernedly about the aft deck.
When we were in country districts we never felt the slightest con-
cern about leaving the boat unattended, but we soon discovered
that this behaviour was typical of urban manners, a contrast
that was significant. We found that grown-ups were little better,
for on more than one occasion when we were passing through a
lock some mother would satisfy her child’s curiosity by lifting it
up and thrusting its head through any window that happened to be
open.

It took us little over an hour to cover the remaining distance from
Blaby to the tail of King’s Lock at Aylestone, where we left the
canal and enteredjthe River Soar, from whose ancient name of
Leire the city derived its title. We found unexpectedly good
moorings at Aylestone Mill, and later in the day journeyed into
the heart of Leicester by that obsolete and ear-shattering form
of transport, the tram-car.

In the seventeenth century the knitting of hosiery and other
textiles became the staple employment in the cottages of a hundred
rural communities in Leicestershire, but the invention of the power-
driven frame in the early eighteen hundreds silenced the hand-
frames of the villages for ever, and the industry soon became
concentrated in a few large nulls in the city. This early industrial

LEICESTER

81

revolution has completely changed the face of Leicester, and a
few smoke-blackened fragments, scattered like ashes among the
beetling warehouses, are all that remain of the mediaeval stronghold
of the Red Rose. One of these remnants, an old house adjoining
what little is left of de Beaumont’s great castle, is reputed to have
witnessed that scene immortalised by Shakespeare, the death of
John of Gaunt. Surrounded by grimy mills and reeking chimneys
the famous words: ‘This other Eden, demi-paradise’, assume a
quality of bitter irony undreamed of by their author.

Two features of Leicester I shall remember : the market and
the church of St. Mary de Castro. After our experience at Market
Harborough, we were not very sanguine about the former,
expecting to find it lurking in some gloomy hall redolent of fish.
Instead we came upon a great square filled with row upon row
of booths, and resounding with a babel of hucksters crying their
wares. Competition was particularly keen among the numerous
vendors of fruit and vegetables, each doing his best to shout down
his neighbour. ‘Fivepence a pound plums’, one would bawl
until his face grew as red as his wares and the adjoining stall cut
the price to fourpence, when, not to be outdone, he would change
his tune to a defiant: ‘Five pound for eighteen pence— there you
are now, the best value in town’. Besides these fruit-sellers there
were stalls piled high with ‘seconds’ (blemished china from the
Potteries), stalls of meat, fish and poultry, stalls of moth-ridden
secondhand clothes, old limp boots and shoes, bookstalls stacked
with dog-eared volumes of Victorian sermons, tattered paper-
backs, and faded editions of Wh 3 de Melville or the Waverley
Novels. Cheap-jacks were offering bright baubles of every sort,
and the sweet-stalls were heavy with golden brown toffee apples
at a halfpenny each.

The church of St. Mary de Castro, which rears its graceful,
soot-blackened spire from the top of the castle moimd, was once
the chapel of the House of Lancaster, but when ‘Proud Bolingbroke’
usurped the crown in 1399, the Earldom of Leicester was merged
into the monarchy, and the chapel became a parish church which,
lacking patronage or benefice, fell into a disastrous state of repair.
Since that time it has suffered at the hands of many restorers,
although it still presents many features of great interest. There
is not only a fine north door of Norman work, but a magnificent
example of a Norman triple sedillia in the south wall of the chancel,
double-shafted pillars supporting the characteristic arches of dog-

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NARROW BOAT

tooth moulding in a fine state of preservation. From the point of
view of the archaeologist this was undoubtedly the greatest
treasure ia the church, but it was the Early English triple sediUia
in the south aisle that I most admired. The years have dealt more
hardly with it, much of the carving having suffered from damp,
but the two interpretations of the same motif afford an interesting
contrast. To my eyes the stolid Norman work looked ponderous
and disproportionate beside the airy grace of the Early P.ngh<^h
shafts, so perfectly in harmony and balance with the graceful
spring of the vaulting. One feature of the church must be quite
unique, and that is the tower. When originally built it was remote
from the body of the church, like its fellow at Evesham, but when,
at a later date, the enormous south aisle was constructed to house a
second colle^ate church, the tower was enclosed, so that it now
stands upon its own foundations within the body of the church.

We emerged from the cool dimness and quiet of tbds most
ancient place into the full blaze of a summer’s afternoon. The
sun was shining out of a clear blue sky, and in the city streets the
scorching pa.vements with tbeir jostiing crowds, the fumes of traffic
and the blaring horns, made ‘Cressy* and the cool river seem more
than ever desirable. We cau^t a tram without more ado and
cl^ed back to the comparative peace of Aylestone, resolved to
slip our moorings md h^d for open country the following morning.

The River Soar is Leicester’s back door, and as back doors are
apt to do, it reveals ‘domestic offices’ which usually remain dis-
creetly hidden, from the ^es of visitors. Broad squares and
pretentious public buildings proclaim the city’s commercial
prosperity to the traveUer by road, but the water-borne traveller
sees a very different picture. This is no less than the ugliness and
squalor which underlie the superficial pomp and circumstance of
all great cities. We saw the reeking gas-works, mountainous refuse
dumps, the power-station with its gigantic steam-capped cooling
towers, great mills pulsating with machinery rising sheer from the
waters edge and, above all, the countless mean streets where
dwelt the servants of these monsters.

M we drift^ along, passing beneath innumerable bridges,
Md wmding this way and that through a canyon of factory walls,
I was extremely thankful for the presence of the towing-path which
accompanies the river throughout its navigable course. For every
now and agam the channel would divide, one branch passing into a
lock, while the other shot over a thundering weir, and as both

LEICESTER

83

were usually invisible, only the path’s unfailing guidance prevents
the stranger from losing the navigable channel and heading for a
weir on a swift current

There is a great deal to be said against river navigations from
the commercial point of view, as the pioneer James Brindley
realised, for, writes Smiles, ‘He likened water in a river flowing
down a declivity to a furious giant ru nnin g along and overturning
everything; whereas (said he) “if you lay the giant flat upon his
back, he loses all his force, and becomes completely passive,
whatever his size may be”.’ The truth of this simple allegory is
proved at least once every winter when the Soar, swollen by flood-
water, becomes unnavigable, and boats are held up sometimes
for weeks on end. At such times locks are liable to damage,
headroom under bridges becomes very restricted, and narrow
boats can scarcely make headway against the current. Travelling
downstream in floodtime is extremely dangerous, because unless a
boat can maintain a speed greater than that of the current it loses all
steerage way, drifts out of control and is swqpt over the weirs.
This fate has befallen over-venturesome boatmen on more than
one occasion, and even when the river is at normal level the efiSsct
of the current has to be allowed for when turning broadside across
the head of a weir to enter a lock chaimel.

Successfully negotiating these hazards, we presently entered a
long, artificial cut away from the river. The water here was black
and foul, the surromitogs depressing in the extreme, so that we
were ^d when, after passing the vast Wolsey Underwear Mills,
we sifted the river again and the first glimpse of open country.
We had seen enough of Leicester. Urbs had one more card to play,
however, for we found that Belgrave Lock, throu^ which we had
to pass to rejoin the river, was full of dead rats. The churning of
our screw set their bloated, putrifying bodira bobbing up and down
in horrid semblance of life. Had there been a local rat week?
we wondered. Two imperturbable fishermen who sat on the lock-
side gazing raptly at the water discountenanced the theory, for
they appeared to accept the malodorous corpses as a part of the
normal order of things. Perhaps Leicester breeds a fortuitous
indifference to the more unpleasant aspects of city life.

‘ Moorings, Barrow-on-Soar ’

Chapter XIV

COSSINGTON AND BARROW-ON-SOAR

Leicester has not marched so far into the country to the north;
its frontiers, the suburban villages of Birstall and Thurmaston on
Fosse Way, were soon passed, and we found ourselves in open
fields at last, with the tall fingers of the mill chimneys fading in
the smoke haze astern. Near the village of Wanlip we entered
another artificial channel, the river mal^g a wide circle to west-
ward, and before rejoining it at Cossington we met the little River
Wreak, flowing through a green tunnel of overhanging trees on its
way from Melton Mowbray. From this point onwards the river
scene would have delighted Cotman or Constable, and it was hard
to believe that the same stream, a few miles back, had seemed little
better than an open sewer. Having achieved our object of getting
clear of the city, we went no farther that day, but moored up in
the water-meadows below the lock by Cossington Mill.

As is the case with everything else in life, the true appreciation
of travel lies in the contrasts which it constantly provides, for just
as those who have not known great sorrow cannot rejoice, so ugli-
ness must forever be the measure of beauty. With this simple
in mind, we had decided on a route which did not seek
deliberately to avoid industrial districts, and this eve nin g at Cos-
sm^on fully justified our choice. For had it not been for the city
we had so lately Irft, the evening light in which clouds of gnats
were dancmg their intricate measures had never seemed so golden

COSSINGTON AND BARROW-ON-SOAR

85

nor the meadows looked so richly green, nor could the eye have
so delighted in the stooping willows and darker plane trees that,
shadowing the water, wrought cunning tapestries of image and
substance. There was new magic in the stillness, broken only by
the lazy thunder of the weir, because the day before we had lurched
down the Aylestone Road in a Leicester Corporation tram.

That the river had stiU better things in store we discovered the
next day when we reached the lock at Barrow-upon-Soar. It was
one of those blazing noons when everything is warm to the touch :
the wooden lock beams, the crumbling brickwork of the bridge,
even the grass had a sensuous warmth, as though the earth beneath
were flesh. The wall of the lock cottage was covered with a climb-
ing rose in full bloom, a wealth of white and gold flowers clustering
about the windows and filling the air with their fragrance. The
murmur of the bees that were busy about them mingled with the
cool plashing of the thin jets of water which were leaking through
chinks in the lock gates to make so drowsy a summer song that
we could scarcely summon the energy to lift the paddles. We were
already in two minds whether or not to continue our journey to
Loughborough, as we had originally planned, but the sight of the
lovely reach below the lock decided matters. We moored up, and
did no more voyaging for four days. Even so, our departure was
determined, not because we had grown tired of our surroundings,
but for the reason that we feared a break in the perfect weather, or
that some chance circumstance might conspire to spoil our recol-
lection of such a time as falls to the lot of the average mortal all
too rarely in these unhappy times.

On one side our moorings were sheltered and screened by the
almost precipitous bank of Barrowclifle, thickly clothed with trees
and undergrowth, which afforded welcome shade in the heat of
the day. Opposite, we looked out over level fields towards the
village of Quorndon, part-screened by encircling elms, and backed
by the wooded heights of Charnwood Forest. In the haze of
cloudless days this farther distance grew indistinct, assuming a
quality of blue that was almost indistinguishable from that of the
sky itself, but by night, under a. harvest moon which was nOar the
full, the hi^ skyline of the forest stood forth as darkly clear as a
woodcut.

One day we went to the village of Woodhouse Eaves, that lovely
name, and climbed up through the pungent, sun-drenched bracken
to the summit of Beacon HiU, one of the highest points in the

NARROW BOAT

86

Forest, commanding a mighty expanse of the Midland Plain.
Later, when we had returned to Barrow, hot and dusty after our
walk, we hired a rowing boat, and in the cool of the evening rowed
round the unnavigable loop of the river by Quom Hall. Our row
ended, appropriately, at the Navigation Inn, its stone-flagged bar
overlooking the white, foaming fall of the weir. Here the naild
drau^t beer, a Derby brew, was the best we encountered on the
whole of our journey, a fitting climax to the day.

Determined to make the most of the perfect weather, we had
all our meals 'in the open, and in the evenings sat on the deck until
long after darkness had fallen, watching the last flush of colour
drain from the sky and the golden moon ride up over the shoulder
of Chamwood. As the air cooled the river smoked with rising
mist, weaving thin white veils, lambent in the moonli^t, which
drifted away over the fields, a Mostly flood no higher than a man’s
waist. We were constantly reminded of the wild company about
us by rq)eated scufiBUng sounds in the reeds, or by the sleepy cluck-
ing of a moorhen. Often in the daylight we would catch sight of
a small brown water-vole squatting on his hindquarters in some
green arbour of the bank not four feet away, nibbling imperturb-
ably at a juicy morsel held between his fore paws. So close did
they venture to ‘Cressy’s’ bow that it was often the comfortable
sound of their munching that first attracted our attention.

Our most entertaining companions, however, were the little
grebe or dabchicks, in their summer plumage of black with bright
chestnut cheeks and throat. We had not encountered them before,
and to watch them was a constant amusement and delight. Thdr
dive was like a conjuring trick, so swiftly was it performed and
with so little trace; one moment there would be a small bird
swimming sedately across the river, and the next empty water
unbroken by the faintest ripple. Most of their time was spent
singly in the serious pursuit of food, but every now and again one
would dedde to play a practical joke on his fellow and, diving,
would startle him by popping up like a cork almost directly be-
neath him. This was invariably the prelude to a wild game of hide-
and-seek under and over the water, accompanied by loud laughing
cries, more melodious, but not unlike that harbinger of rain, the
call of the gr^ woodpecker. Just as the memory of some melody
can become inextricably associated in the mind with certain per-
sons, events or places, so I shall always recall these halcyon days
at Barrow-i^n-Soar when I hear the cry of the dabchick.

Chapter XV
THE BELL FOUNDERS

When we reluctantly cast off from our moorings at Barrow it was
not long before we once more left the river for an artificial channel,
and presently found ourselves approaching the town of Lough-
borough. The surroundings were an unprepossessing replica of
Leicester, though, fortunately, upon a smaller scale, and as the
weather was still perfect, we were sorely tempted to push forward
until we rejoined the river. Yet there was one feature of the town
we had resolved not to miss, so we moored up and tramped
through a seemingly interminable maze of mean streets, until we
came upon our objective, the works of Messrs. John Taylor, a
small unpretentious foundry, famous the world over as the birth-
place of bells since 1366.

LousJiborou^ is justly proud of this ancient industry, and
boasts a public official whose office is imique in England. He is
the Town Carilloneur, and twice a week throughout the summer
months he gives recitals on what must surely be the finest War
Memorial in the country, a carillon tower of forty-three bells.

There can be few countries which have not heard flie sound of
a Loughborough bell, nor a cathedral in England whose bells John
Taylors’ have not cast or re-cast No bell is too small or too large
for these craftsmen to tackle, from the sweet-toned handbells once
beloved of village ringers but now alas all too rarely heard, to such
brazen-voiced giants as ‘Great George’ of Bristol, ‘Great Peter’ of
York Minster, and, peer of them all, ‘Great Paul’, the Bourdon
Bell of St Paid’s Cathedral, which wd^ no less than sixteen and
a half tons and measures thirty feet in circumference. This enor-
mous bell, file largest in the Empire, was cast in 1881, and con-
veyed to London by road— certainly no mean feat at that time.
Among the most notable of more recent casts has been a peal of
fourteen and a Bourdon beU ‘Hosanna’ for the new Abbey of
Buckfast

This foundry was full of beUs of every size and for every pur-
pose: ships’ bells (one for the new Cunarder ‘Princess Elizabeth’),

87

NARROW BOAT

88

bells for carillons, and church bells, some, destined for Catholic or
monastic foundations, bearing Latin inscriptions, others inscribed
as memorials of persons or events. Even in thfc yard outside lay
numerous old and discarded bells, sadly awaiting their turn to be
melted down.

The mould into which the bell-metal is poured when the cast
takes place is not made to a wooden pattern or a drawing, as is the
case in ordmary foundry work. Instead it is built upon a circular
metal bed-plate to the measure of a sheet-metal template called a
‘strickler’. This represents an exact ‘slice’ of the required bell, so
that the moulder, using it as a gauge, can build up the mould and
core to precisely the right contour. When this has been done, the
outer mould, formed in a metal container not unlike a bell itself,
is lowered over the core, the air space between them being the
phantom beU to which the molten metal will conform when it i»
poured in.

When the cast has taken place the final tuning is carried out by
removing a certain amount of metal from inside the mouth of the
bell. Nowadays this process is carried out on a vertical lathe, but
in the earlier days of bell-founding it was done by the somewhat
crude means described as ‘hammer and chisel tuning’, which simply
consisted of chipping away the metal until the bell sounded right.
Many of the old bells in the scrap yard bore evidence of this
haphazard method.

To anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of foundry work the
foregoing procedure is perfectly straightforward, even though it
is xmorthodox. The secret of the bell-founder’s craft is hidden in
the calculations which can produce a bell to ring the desired note
so accurately that only the lightest skimming on the lathe is
sufficient to put it in perfect tune. We caught a momentary glimpse
of this gemus, a portly, bespectacled figure incongruously clad in
blue pin-stripe trousers, suede shoes, shirt sleeves and gaudy
braces, who emerged from some inner lair to listen attentively
while overalled workmen armed with hide mallets rang several
peals on a set of bells which had just arrived for re-casting. What
his conclusions were and in what intricate form they would take
shape at his desk we shall never know.

We saw not only the bells themselves in process of manufacture,
but the massive frames in which they are hung and the slender
woodMi rope pulleys which lift them. Most modem frames are
built of steel girders, but in the joiners’ shop, where machinery was

THE BELL FOUNDERS

89

eonspicuous by its absence, one of the old-type wooden frames
was being constructed with great new-hewn beams of seasoned
oak which were a joy to behold. The employees of Messrs. John
Taylor are fortunate in their craft, for the making of bells can
never fall a prey to mechanised quantity production, and the
machines must forever be subordinate to the skill of hand and eye.

Loughborough may rightly be proud of her bells, and we did
not begrudge the hours of sunshine which we spent in the
foundry.

Chapter XVI
DOWN TO THE TRENT

Inland navigation must be the safest form of transport ever
devised, and compared to the death-dealing turmoil of the modem
motor road, the canal or river is a veritable sanctuary. The nearest
approach to an accident which we encountered on the whole of
our long journey occurred as we were leaving Loughborough on
our way back to the river. We were approaching the narrow
channel under a bridge — or a ‘bridge-hole’, in canal parlance —
when through the arch came a party of holiday-makers in a hired
punt. There would have been ample time for them to have cleared
the narrows and paddled to the side, but at the sudden spectacle
of ‘Cressy’ bearing down upon them they completely lost their
heads and swung broadside across our bows. From my point of
vantage at the tiller it seemed that we should inevitably smash
their fragile craft to pieces against the mouth of the. bridge, for
there was no room to alter course. All I could do was to put
‘Gessy* full astern and hope for the best. The water boiled furi-
ously under our stem and the whole boat vibrated, but the ex-
pect^ collision did not come. We checked with a foot or so to
spare, and the occupants of the punt, righting themselves, paddled
past, m a king such embarrassed apologies and blushing so furiously
that we had not the heart to vmt upon them the storm of abuse

90

DOWN TO THE TRENT 91

(that mythical language of the ‘bargee’) which they evidently
anticipated.

This encounter had its sequel on the river an hour or so later,
when, on drawing in to the bank to moor for the night, I engaged
reverse gear without result, our propeller ceasing to revolve. When
we had contrived with difficulty to get our mooring lines ashore,
I made an investigation, hoping for the best, but gloomily visualis-
ing a broken propeller shaft, a sheared key, or dire happenings
inside the gearbox, any of which was capable of crippling us for
many days. Luckily, however, the trouble was simple. A coupling
sleeve on the propeller shaft had been loosened by the rough
treatment it had received, allowing the tail end of the shaft to
slide out through the stem tube until the propeller had foffied the
rudder stock. It was simply necessary to push the shaft home and
re-tighten the coupling, a job that was soon done, although it
involved an impromptu bathe in the river. Because the evening
was warm, this was no hardship — ^in fact the tonic of cold water
gave me a wonderful appetite for the dinner which was awaiting
me when I had finished.

The numerous slender spires of the village churches are a feature
of the soft river scenery between Loughborough and the Trent.
First comes Normanton, so close upon the bank that it ponders
its image in the water, then Kegworth, rising from a screen of
sheltering trees, and lastly Radclifife, a church of more humble
proportions crowning a knoll in the open fields.

Was it chance or an innate sense of fitness that inspired die
masons of old time to build their spires so often in the flat lands?
Dwarfed in a hill coimtry, where the bolder tower is better suited,
there can be no doubt tl^t the soaring grace of the spire appears
to the best advantage in a setting of willow-fringed pastures and
winding streams.

When we landed at Normanton in quest of milk we were Mad-
dened by the siMit of old buildings in good repair, some newly
thatched, the first examples of living country craftsmanship we
had seen since we had left Oxfordshire. A similar excursion into
Radcliffe-on-Soar the next day was evra. better rewarded, although
we could obtain no milk. In order to get to the village we had to
rqieat our adventure on the Avon at Harvington by wading the
weir channel of the river at a ford. A bed of sharp stones made
the crossing extremely uncomfortable, but Radcliffe church was
worth a tender foot-sole and an empty milk-can.

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NARROW BOAT

It appeared to have escaped alike the unwelcome attentions of
the Cromwellians and of nineteenth-century restorers, so secluded
is this hamlet by the river. The magnificent alabaster tombs of
the Satcheverell family in the chancel were intact, the calm features
of the kni^ts and their ladies undefaced, while the whole church,
innocent of Victorian make-up, glowed in its original simplicity.
Nor was this all ; more remarkable still, it had been furnished in
rare and perfect taste. All too often the austere beauty of naked
stone or mellow woodwork is marred by garish scarlet hassocks
and carpets, while altars of effective simplicity are covered by
hideous cloths of green, magenta or royal blue. Here the carved
altar table of natural oak, scorning aU such tawdry pretensions,
vras quite bare and, by a stroke of genius, the’ narrow strip of
carpet up the centre of the aisle was of a certain shade of azure
blue that harmonised to perfection with the greys and browns of
stone and wood. The beauty of the average country church would
be enhanced tenfold if the clergy could have a few lessons in the
art of church furnishing from this incumbent Yet all was not well
with this lovely church, for the fabric was in a sorry state of repair,
the fine oak roof showing signs of rot, and the walls so stained
with damp at floor level as to suggest that it had been invaded
more than once by winter floods.

In the surrounding churchyard were some outstanding examples
of the slate tombstones which are peculiar to this district. They
hail from the famous quarries of Swithland in Chamwood, their
lettering and ornamentation, which are of remarkable grace and
delicacy, being the work of a group of village craftsmen founded
in the seventeenth century.

Half an hour after leaving Radcliffe we passed through Red
Hill, the last of the Soar locks, where we gave up the pass which
had carried us from Norton Junction, and presently entered the
broad Trent at a meeting-place of many waters. Immediately on
our right the river flowed over Thrumpston weir, while the mouth
of the navigable channel, or Cranfleet Cut as it is called, for craft
proceeding downstream to Nottin^am, Newark and the Humber,
lay two hundred yards upstream. Directly opposite was the en-
trance lock of the Erewash Canal, leading north to Derby and
Langley Mill. Save for an occasional pair of ‘Joshers’ or Erewash
Canal boats, we had met little traffic on the Soar, but now we
found ourselves in the midst of a milie of boats of every sort and
size. A pair of narrow boats were coming out of the lock opposite,

DOWN TO THE TRENT

93

numerous holiday-makers in minute pedal-driven craft were dart-
ing hither and thither like so many water-fleas, with a joyous
abandon that cared nothing for the rules of navigation, while, to
complete the congestion, a race was in progress for small sailing-
boats and, since there was a head wind, these last were tacking
from bank to bank across the stream. Turning left-handed, we
forged steadily up-river, keeping a wary eye on the pedal boats,
which were reminiscent both in appearance and behaviour of the
‘Dodgem Cars’ at a fair, and at the same time taking care to pass
the amateur sailors on the right tack. In this fashion we came to
Sawley Lock, the only one of the big Trent Locks which we had
to pass.

As this was the height of the holiday season, we had been sur-
prised at the absence of pleasure craft on the quiet reaches of the
Soar, but the next few hundred yards of the river above Sawley
amply accounted for the deficiency. A dozen or more cabin
cruisers were moored head to stem along the banks, whose grass,
bruised and flattened, was bestrewn with an untidy litter of paper
bags, empty tins, orange peel and the embers of picnic fires.
Nearly all the boats had crews aboard, of whom some were bath-
ing, while others lolled on the decks to the accompaniment of the
inevitable gramophone or radio. Evidently the townsman afloat
is as gregarious as his confrere of the roads, whose habits I have
frequently pondered with amazement. Often on a bank holiday I
have walked or driven through fields and lanes for hours on end
without meeting a soul, but, on coming upon a main road, found
its verges crowded with cars and picnic parties withiu a bun’s
throw of each other. It would seem that the close confinement of
great cities has re-awakened the herd instinct of the primitive. The
countryman knows no unease in the elemental silence of lonely
places ; but when the people of the towns return to the land they
have forsaken, impelled by a craving they do not understand, it is
to find its solitude intolerable, so complete is their estrangement.
This is one of the tragic results of the drift to the towns.

We had thought of spending a night on the Trent, but the
spectacle of this throng at Sawley induced us to change our plans,
and so we continued upstream, passing under the great girder
which carries the Leicester pipe of the Derwent Valley water supply
over the river in a single span. The river hereabouts must have
been fully a hundred yards wide, and since the westering sun was
dead ahead, it was over a dazzlhig golden pathway that we came

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to the end of our river journey at Derwent Mouth. On our
right was the mouth of the tributary Derwent, and between the
converging rivers lay the entrance of the Trent and Mersey Canal,
England’s first coast-to-coast waterway, and James Brindley’s
masterpiece.

By this time we had become so accustomed to travelling on
broad rivers that it seemed strange to find ourselves once more
confined to such a narrow channel of dead water. The banks,
overgrown with tall reeds, appeared to crowd in upon us, an effect
that was hei^tened by the great clumps of reed which had broken
away from the banks and floated into deep water, often forming
what appeared to be an impassable barrier until they were swung
aside by ‘Cressy’s’ bows. By the time we had worked our way
through the first two canal locks and had come to Shardlow, dark-
ness was falling fast, so we moored for the night in the meadows
just beyond the village.

Chapter XVII

SINGING SHARDLOW AND STORM AT FINDERN

The wharves and warehouses of Shardlow constitute the eastern
terminus of Brindley’s great canal, and the village has sprung up
around them in the same way that Crewe has grown up beside its
railway yards. Here the parallel, ends, however, for, when Crewe
was built, the new industrial order was already firmly established,
and the short-sifted aim of immediate commercial gain had
finally swept away the last remnants of permanence and grace
from architecture. Shardlow dates from the dawn of the new
era, and the canal buildings bear witness to the fact that these
qualities had not then been lost The masons of a century and a
half ago built them to endure, and endowed them also with the
dying spark of that fire which once^made the humblest bam a
thing of beauty.

One large, three-storeyed warehouse, which in modem hands
would have been a featureless barrack, was miraculously trans-
formed by a combination of detail so subtle that it was difficult
to discover why it should be so satisfying to the eye. Doubtless
the secret lay in the pitch of the roof, in the shape and spacing of
the windows, and in the colour of the wide-morticed bricks, while
a low, wide arch under the foundations, beneath which the boats
could run to unload, gave the whole ponderous mass an im-
substantial air which called to mind the fairy-like, painted castles
of the boat cabins. In the same manner, round-headed doorways
and a curious projecting gable end lent character and charm to an
old Malthouse adjoining ‘The Malt Shovel’ inn.

We found no less than three canal-side inns at Shardlow, each
with its staunch little clientele of ‘regulars’ playing each other at
darts, or setting the affairs of villages and nations to rights over a

95

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NARROW BOAT

pint of Burton ale. No dub is more exdusive than the bar of a
village inn, and perhaps it was because we respected this fact that
we were greeted with kindliness and natural courtesy, two qualities
which the townsman of today has lost.

Least prepossessing externally, but most entertaining of the
trio, was ‘The Canal Tavern’, beside Shardlow Lock. By day the
jovial landlord of this inn plies his trade as a blacksmith, but in
the evenings he turns musician, settling his burly figure onto the
stool before the old bar piano and rattling off all the old familiar
songs, simple, sentimental or bawdy, while his patrons sing
themselves hoarse. We heard the strains of ‘Daisy Bell’ drifting
over the water long before we reached the house, and when we
entered we were at once invited to swell the chorus of singers who
lined the benches round the walls, with their pint glasses set before
them. The company was representative of both sexes and every
age, from a party of village youths who evidently preferred an
evening’s full-blooded entertainment at the ‘Tavern’ to two hours
synthetic sentiment in the cinema, to an old lady who, we were
informed in a stage whisper, was over eighty years of age and would,
when the mood was upon her, dance in the clear space between
the tables, footing it as lightly and nimbly as a girl. Unfortunately
this spectacle was denied us, but it was enough to watch her as she
entered hewt and soul into the singing, with a harsh but surprisingly
tuneful voice, like a male falsetto, nodding her head and swinging
her glass in time to the music. Despite innumerable wrinkles and
an almost total lack of teeth, her features were wonderfully firm
and youthful, while her hair was as dark and lustrous as her eyes.

After several songs in chorus, notably a long and bawdy
version of ‘Old King Cole’, with a rousing refrain which echoed
to the rafters, we were treated to a solo by the local lock-keeper,
a swarthy, handsome fellow in his early thirties, who gave a most
able rendering of ‘Old Macdonald’ with great fluency and spirit.
Then, acquiescing coyly to insistent requests, the landlady obliged
with a very sentimental ditty, sung in a quavering contralto, which
drew silent tears from the old lady.

Meanwhile the drawing and carrying of beer were entrusted,
with ddightful informality, to voluntary helpers, most notable
among th^ being an elderly engine-driver, ‘Uncle Jack’, as he
was affectionately called, bustled untiringly to and fro in his shirt
sleeves, singing lustily, a cloth cap perched on the back of his
silvery head. His rosy countenance radiated benevolent good

SINGING SHARDLOW AND STORM AT FINDERN 97

humour in a perpetual grin, and his blue eye was as sharp and
quizzical as a robin’s.

For all its mediocre appearance, the landlord and patrons have
brou^t ‘The Canal Tavern’ nearer to the spirit of an older and
happier rural past than all the ‘olde innes’ with their sham timber-
ing and bogus brasses. The scene in the bar would have delighted
Hogarth or Rabelais ; it swept the imagination into that past when
the countrymen of England were still merry, to the days before
the repressive effects of Puritanism and the Enclosure Acts had,
between them, contrived to kill the spontaneity and break the ties
of the rural communities. It was with genuine regret that we took
our leave of this jovial company, and on the morrow looked back
until a bend in the canal hid the wharves and ions of Shardlow
from our sight.

The weather was overcast and threatening, for a thunderstorm
in the night had not cleared the air, and when we met our friend
the lock-keeper at Aston Lock it began to rain heavily. Nothing
daunted, we continued on our way up the valley towards Weston-
upon-Trent, and were rewarded not only by an improvement in
the weather, but by a more than usually attractive canal scene.
For a mile or more the waterway hugged the wooded slope of the
river bank, and between the boles of the trees which leant graceftilly
over the water we caught glimpses of the winding river, with the
green slopes of Donnington Park beyond.

The locks hereabouts were wide, and so deep that it was some-
times impossible to clamber from ‘Cressy’s’ deck onto the lock
parapet. Several of the cottages beside them were small shops,
selling twist tobacco, highly coloured sweets or mineral waters,
and one at Weston Lock served as a ToU Office for west-bound
boats. By the time we reached the lock at Swarkestone, the
junction of the Derby Canal, the sun, which had at last struggled
clear of a sultry, steaming haze, was blazing down from a cloudless
sky with such intensity that every solid outline appeared to waver
in the shimmering air, and the tar blistered on our deck.

A canal lock, with its outspread beams, graceful bridge and
attendant cottage ringed about with flowers, is an addition to any
landscape and the dominant feature of the canal scene. The lock
at Swarkestone was still further enhanced by the garden of a second
cottage, which occupied the narrow triangular plot of ground
between the two converging waterways. With its massed borders
of sweet-scented country flowers, smooth lawn and heavy-laden

G

NARROW BOAT

98

apple trees, it resembled an enchanted island in the still water,
and so beguiled us that it was not until we had journeyed some two
miles on our way that we realised that we had left both our lock
windlasses behind.

It seemed that there was nothing for it but to trudge back along
the tow-path, for one of the minor drawbacks of canal travel is the
impossibility of turning the boat round at will. In the heyday of
the canals, when boats traded to every village wharf, turning-
places or ‘winding holes’ were common enough, but as the wharves
fell into disuse they became filled up with mud or overgrown with
reeds, with the result that junctions or the basins of the larger
towns are often the only turning places. We had therefore resigned
ourselves to a weary tramp, and were arguing whether one or both
of us should go, when we sighted a large farm on the right bank,
called, according to my map, Arleston House. Thither we went
on our usual quest for milk and with the idea that I might perhaps
be able to borrow a bicycle. We found substantial outbuildings
in good repair, and received a general impression of prevailing
order and efficiency, a welcome change from that dispirited air of
neglect and decay which pervades the majority of English farms
today. Owing to the abnormally wet season, the hay harvest
had evidently only just been completed, although August was
almost at an end, for several Hermaphrodite wagons were standing
in the yard beside new-made ricks as yet unthatched. I had never
actually seen a wagon of this type before, although I recognised
it at once from the drawing and description in Mr. Hennell’s
fascinating but tragic book ‘Change in the Farm’. It consists of an
orthodox two-wheeled tumbril which can be speedily converted
into a li^t harvest wain by the addition of a fore-carriage, the
whole making a combination so serviceable that it is surprising
it is not more widely used. A measure of the charm of these old
agricultural implements built by local craftsmen, however, is their
regional character, and according to Mr. Hennell the home of the
‘Mophrodite’ or ‘Mufferer’, as countrymen caU it, is in North
Lincolnshire and part of Norfolk.

Whether or not the farmer of Arleston was a Lincolnshire man
we did not discover, but he was certainly extremely obliging, not
only filling our can with new milk, but prevailing upon his cowman
to laid me his bicycle. So, while Angela laid tea on the fore-deck,
I pedalled furiously back to Swarkestone, found one windlass after
some search, and returned, all in less time than it had taken

SINGING SHARDLOW AND STORM AT FINDERN 99

‘Cressy’ to make the single journey and no longer than the tea
kettle took to boil.

We had not gone much farther upon our way that evening before
the sky began to darken ominously, towering thunder-clouds
sweeping up astern. We heard the first distant roll of thunder as we
left Stenson Lock, and though we ran before the storm for a mile
or so, it became obvious that we could not hope to evade its swift
advance, so we moored hurriedly by the village of Findem just
as the &st heavy drops of rain were plopping sullenly in the
water.

It was the worst storm either of us had ever experienced, raging
without pause for over three hours. Many-branched forked light-
ning flickered incessantly on three sides, illuminating the cabin
with its vivid glare as the great storm-belt travelled slowly north-
west from the direction of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, across the Trent
valley and over Needwood Forest. We had to shout to make
ourselves heard above the roar of the tropical deluge on the roof
and the repeated crashes of thunder.

At half-past ten that night, when the fury of the storm had at
last abated, we were surprised to hear the familiar exhaust beat of an
approaching motor-boat. Looking out, we were in time to watch
her, a loaded Fellows Morton, glide by and to exchange greetings
with her steerer. His legs were distinguishable in the light from
the cabin, but his head and shoulders were invisible, for the boat
carried no external lights and the night was black as pitch, save
when an occasional flicker of li^tning afforded a momentary
glimpse of a dark skyline of trees. Only, once have I tried navigat-
ing a narrow boat by ni^t, and then decided to give the boatman
best. He rivals the owl or the cat in his ability to find his way over
the most tortuous waterway in almost total darkness.

Chapter XVIII
THE BREWERS

On the afternoon of the day following, which was fresh and clear
after the great storm, we reached Horninglow Wharf, in the home
of beer, Burton-on-Trent. As usual, the proximity of the town
had been marked by suburban villages and impoverished country,
the only point of interest being the aqueduct of twenty-three arches
by which we crossed the River Dove. Although dwarfed by the
modern concrete road bridge beside it, this is a monumental
work, considering the age in which it was built and taking into
account the enormous weight of the canal in its puddled clay bed.
No other work of the day compared in magnitude with these
aqueducts of Brindley’s making. Crowds flocked to see them,
while they were described by contemporary writers as ‘the greatest
artificial curiosities in the world’ or ‘rivers hung in the air’. They
are a distinguishing feature of Brindley’s canals, for Rennie and
Telford, who followed after him, dispensed with the great weight
of the puddled bed by carrying the water in a trough of cast-iron
sections bolted together and enclosed in masonry.

Walking throu^ Burton’s dirty streets, it is impossible for a
moment to forget the town’s major industry. Brewers’ drays or
lorries rattle past over the uneven setts, and the air is filled with the
pungM.t aroma of the tall brewhouses and maltings which meet the
eye on every hand. These streets are intersected by innumerable
level CTossings. Every now and again, at the strident clang of a bell,
the gates swing to, compelling the traffic of Burton to wait with
patient deference while a squat, shunting locomotive, glittering with
polished brasswork and bright paint, puffs fussily across with a
lumbering trainload of great pot-bellied casks bearing the familiar
names of Bass, Worthington, Alsopp, or Ind Coope.

Obviously we could not leave without visiting a brewery, and
we singed out Alsopps for no better reason than that their products
appealed most to our taste. We found a resplendent conimissionaire
in a lofty entrance hall as grandiose as the Bank of England, and a
striking testimony to the profits derived from slaking the national

too

THE BREWERS

101

thirst. When we had made our wishes known we were conducted
from one reception-room to another, questioned by another and
even more resplendent commissionaire, then by a girl secretary,
given a final inspection by a still more authoritative personage,
who, having apparently satisfied himself that we were neither
anarchists nor unscrupulous competitors, deigned to unbend and
grant our request. Actually we were doubly fortunate, not only
in being allowed round at such short notice, but in the fact that for
this very reason we escaped the more usual fate of being members
of a large party with a uniformed guide. Instead our philosopher
and friend was a ‘spare man’, one capable of taking the place of any
absentee workman, and who therefore was familiar with the whole
process. His natural, diffident explanations, made in a broad
Staffordshire dialect, were infinitely preferable to the glib, parrot-
like monologue of a professional guide.

The beer barrel is ubiquitous in Burton; it is the town’s one
inescapable feature, so that when I recall it to my mind it is to
picture not streets, buildings or faces, but the mountainous piles
of barrels which we saw as we crossed the cobbled yard to Alsopps’
brewery. There were barrels, too, in railway wagons and lorries;
even the air above was not free of them, for they rumbled high
overhead on a roller conveyor, lurching along like a row of drunken
men.

Climbing many flights of steps, we saw how the malt was forced
up through pipe-lines from the maltings into yawning hoppers
the height of a house, and we followed the ‘liquor’ on its compli-
cated course from the great hooded copper vats, where the delicate
process of brewing takes place, up to the cooling-room at the very
top of the tall building, down again through the foaming open
vats, where Ihe yeast does its work, and finally to the cold bottling-
rooms and cellars, where bottles and barrels are filled with the
finished product, which only then goes by the name of beer.

Brewers are slaves of time and temperature, for an error of a few
degrees Fahrenheit or five minutes on the clock may spell ruin to a
thousand gallons. Clocks and thermometers were everywhere,
and beside each open vat hung little blackboards covered with
cryptic symbols and times which revealed to the initiated at a
^nce the stage each had reached in the process of fermentation.

No mistake had been made over the brew we sampled in the
cellar, of that there could be no question. It was a dark mild beer
which glowed the colour of deepest amber in the tall sampling

NARROW BOAT

102

glasses, and it tasted as good as it looked. There could be no
question, either, of work in a brewery destro:pg the taste for beer,
for our companion obviously relished this conclusion of our
conducted tour, and we toasted each other several times, still
surrounded by the inevitable barrels, until we finally bade him
farewell and, blinking, climbed the cellar stairs into the bright
sunlight of the yard.

We carried away an impression of cleanliness and efficiency
calculated to heighten rather than detract from the pleasure of
drinking a glass at the sign of the red hand; moreover, it was
obvious that brewing was a trade which still demanded individual
initiative from the operative. Nevertheless, I still feel the old regret
that such an essentially rural and individual process should
have become industrialised upon so vast a scale. As we walked
back to the boat I recalled somewhat wistfully the little brewhouse
of Cotswold stone behind the ‘Noel Arms’ at Chipping Camden,
one of the last licensed houses in England to evade the clutches
of big business and preserve its ancient rights.

Essex Bkidoe, Great Haywood

Chapter XIX

HORNINGLOW TO HAYWOOD

We found that the seven miles of canal from Hominglow Wharf
to Wichnor Bridges were the most uninteresting we had so far
encoxmtered. The canal crossed a flat plain of semi-derelict
pasture whose boundaries were the chimneys of Marston’s
Brewery, the low hills of Needwood, and the Burton-Lichfield
main road. We soon approached to within a few yards of the
lattor, following it for several straight and seemingly interminable
miles. The knowledge that this busy highway was once the
Roman Rykneld Street was small compensation for the din of
hurrying traffic, the ^ing road-signs, ribbon-bmlt bungalows
and all the tawdry ugliness which the motor-car has brought to
the English road.

Watching the speeding cars from ‘Cressy’s’ deck as she drifted
along at her placid three-miles-an-hour gait, I found myself
marvelling at the mania of hurry which has infected our unhappy
civilisation. It would seem that I was beginning to acquire some-
thing of the boatman’s philosophy, for when I was a motorist
myself I was never so struck by the absurdity of expending such

103

104

NARROW BOAT

prodigality of power and effort, risk and nervous strain, for the
sole sake of saving an hour or so of time which was seldom
or never utilised to any creative purpose. Cumbersome lorries
were thrashing down the long, straight road with their engines
running at peak revolutions, little, mass-produced saloon cars
clinging like terriers to their swinging trailers, dodging in and out
in their attempts to pass, being evidently determined to maintait)
their fifty miles per hour, regardless of risk. No doubt when they
reached their destination their drivers would spend the precious
time they had risked lives to save by going to the talkies to relieve
their boredom. At one point traffic was held up by a herd of cows
which were wending their slow, imperturbable way across the road
to the milldng-shed, and the expressions of impatience on the
drivers’ faces were wondrous to behold. We were thankful when,
just as dusk was beginning to fall, we reached Wichnor Bridges,
where canal and road diverged.

The lock-keeper at Wichnor by whose cottage we moored was
even more agreeable than most, which is saying a great deal.
Not only did he provide us with a windlass to replace the one we
had lost at Swarkestone, but he insisted on making us a present
of a fine basket of blackberries. Lock-keepers lead solitary lives,
for their cottages are often remote from villages or even roads,
so that they welcome a gossip with the crew of a passing boat.
Bieir job is not as easy as it would appear, for their responsibility
is not confined to the lock by their cottage, but extends over some
miles of canal, which may include several more locks. As the
prosperity of the canals sinks into eclipse, so each man’s length
grows longer and longer, intermediate lock cottages being either
let to agricultural labourers or left to fall to ruin. In addition to
maintaimng the locks in working order, there are the hedges to
be trimmed and banks to be mown, w hi le the towing path must be
kq)t in a reasonable state of repair. It is also the lock-keeper’s
task to maintain a more or less constant level of water in the
pounds imder his charge through winter floods or summer
droughts, by adjusting the sluices which govern the flow of water
from feeders or outfalls. Any minor leaks which may develop
in Ae banks must be stopped with clay puddle before they assume
serious proportions, and it is his duty -to notify the maintenance
department of any major repairs which may become necessary,
or of sections which may require dredging.

The lock-keeper of Wichnor had been bom in his cottage, for

HORNINGLOW TO HAYWOOD

105

his father had spent his lifetime on the same job. He was a mine
of local information, as well he might be, and it was he who told
us the history of the great farm which stood by Rykneld Street
at Wichnor Bridge. The generous size of many farmhouses recalls
the vanished prosperity of the countryside, but this house was
bigger than any I had ever seen. Built of typical Midland brick,
it presented a long and towering three-storeyed fa 5 ade to the
road, the doorway flanked by pillars which supported a bow-
fronted bay extending through both upper storeys. Of no less
impressive magnitude were the buildings set about the spacious
cobbled courtyard, to which a lofty archway gave access. Yet the
whole made a sorry contrast to the last farm we had visited at
Arleston, for to walk through this arch was to see desolation,
poverty and its attendant ruin stalking like a malignant disease.
The cobbles of the courtyard were covered with weeds, slates had
slipped from the roofs to reveal skeletal rafters beneath, broken
window-panes stuffed with sacking had an air of shabby villainy,
like the patch over a pirate’s blind eye, while only a few rooms in
the enormous house appeared still to be inhabited. This, we
leame4 was ‘The Flitch of Bacon’, once one of the latest and
greatest of posting-houses, its name now bestowed upon an
insignificant modem inn a mile down the road. In the light of this
knowledge the place appeared even more forlorn. The serried
rows of blank windows gazed down with an air of witless be-
wilderment on the hurrying cars they knew not and over the ruined
courtyard, which never more would echo to the ring of hooves
or the urgent cries of postboys and ostlers.

Midway between Wichnor and Alrewas the River Trent flows
through the canal. It enters at the tail of Alrewas lock, to flow
out over a weir some two hundred yards below. It seemed a
strange negation of Brindley’s declared policy of avoiding rivers,
being a source of danger and delay in time of flood, when empty
boats are easily drawn towards the weir by the swift current. Our
friend the lock-keeper, who insisted on accompanying us as far
as Alrewas lock, complained bitterly of the trouble caused to him
by the masses of floating weed which the river was continually
piling against the gates of the lower lock.

Alrewas scarcely lived up to the beauty of its name, for
the old village of timbered brick and thatch was beleaguered
by that all-too-common fringe of alien Council houses. We
therefore passed by to moor in open country midway be-

NARROW BOAT

106

tween it and the junction of the Coventry Canal at Fradley
Locks.

The ancient village of Fradley lies some distance to the east,
but a second village has grown up about the canal junction,
centring around the yards of the district maintenance department
and ‘The Swan’, a typical canal iim, with stabling attached which
overlooks the wide basin formed by the meeting of the two
waterways. As is only fitting, the main street of this little hamlet
is the canal climbing easily up a gentle slope by a flight of four
locks, and access to it by road is provided only by the towing-path,
which has been broadened to admit wheeled traffic as far as the
‘Swan’. Here we had reached the southernmost point on the canal,
Fradley being situated at the apex of the broad Vee which its
course from coast to coast roughly resembles. When the water-
way was originally proposed it was referred to as ‘the canal from
the Trent to the Mersey’, but although this is the name which has
survived in current usage among boatmen, Brindley urged that it
should be called ‘The Grand Trunk’, and it was in this name that the
Act was passed through Parliament which enabled Josiah Wedge-
wood to cut the first sod of the great undertaking at Bramhills
on July 26th, 1766. Brindley’s choice of title was made because he
foresaw that the projected canal was destined to become the central
connecting artery of the whole system of inland waterways,
the truth of his contention being proved some years later, when,
by the construction of the Staffordshire and Worcestershire
Canal to Great Haywood, and the Coventry Canal to Fradley,
his ‘Grand Trunk’ was linked to the Severn at Stourport and to the
Thames at Oxford. Perhaps when these canals were at the height
of their prosperity— and in their day they were more successful
than the railways have ever been — ^Fradley Junction was aware of
its significance. No doubt the stables of the ‘Swan’ were nightly
filled with horses and the bar with boatmen, while by day the
water in the locks was seldom still. Now, however, Fradley has
fallen asleep. It has ripened to a mellow old age, like any other
TOuntiy vilkge, and, less disturbed by the present age than they,
it slumb^ in the sun, the dreams of a busier past unbroken by the
rare passage of a boat through the locks.

We moored ‘Cress 3 ^ to the rings conveniently placed before the
door of ‘The Swan* while we drank a glass of mil d beer in the cool
but sunht bar. The window of the little-used toll office opposite
was set out with bowls of fruit for sale, and when Angela crossed

HORNINGLOW TO HAYWOOD

107

over the lock to buy some it did not seem in any way remarkable,
so naturally was it in keeping with the character of the place, that
her purchase should be weighed upon a steelyard, that early
form of hanging balance once common in the English farmhouse,
but now one with the bread peel, the skimmer and the spit in the
ranks of rural *by-gones’.

It was after we had left the inn at Fradley and had come to rest
in Shade House Lock that we first noticed the smell. At Wood
End Lock it was worse, while at Bramley Common, the last of the
fiight, it was positively nauseating, the water black and foul, the
banks and lock-sides covered with a noxious slime. We were at a
loss to understand the reason for this, for we were passing throu^
a remote tract of h^th and woodland on the fringe of Cannock
Chase. The captain of a passing ‘Josher’ gave us the answer:
‘It’s the Milk Factory,’ he explained, with a jerk of his head in
the direction in which we were travelling. Sure enough we presently
came upon it — ^an unsightly blot in the fair green fields. A steel
chimney was belching black smoke, and a reeking, milky afiluent
was pouring into the canal throng several pipes. Evidently the
canal authorities take no exception to this proceetog, but it seemed
well-nigh incredible that die angling society owning the fishing
rights on this section had apparently taken no action, for we
noticed many dead fish. In view of the elaborate apparatus intro-
duced in modem times to dispose of domestic sewage at the ex-
pense of soil fertility, it seems criminally illogical that industrialists
should be allowed to pollute miles of water in this indiscriminate
and wanton fashion. Factory effluents such as this and the bitumen-
laden surface water firom modem motor roads are between them
slowly but surely driving the wild life from the canals, rivers and
streams, a lamentable fact which any fisherman will corroborate.

It was a welcome relief to be in clear water again, heading for
the villages of Handsacre and Armitage, and once more in sight
of the Trent, which we had left to the north at Alrewas. There was
evidence that Armitage had once been an exclusively rural com-
munity attractively placed on the edge of the Chase overlooking
the river, but, thWs to the establishment of a large sanitary
pottery in the vicinity, the village now bears a sadly blackened
and semi-industrialist appearance. The most interesting feature
we encountered there was the canal tunnel. Though only a hundred
and thirty yards long, it more nearly resembled a natural cavern,
Brindley’s ‘navigators’ having roughly hewn their way through an

‘Armtaoe Tunnel ... More Nearly

Resembled a Natural Cavern ’

HORNINGLOW TO HAYWOOD 109

outcrop of solid sandstone, the marks of .their crude implements
appearing so fresh that it was difficult to believe that they had
been made a century and a half ago.

Armitage was scarcely a beauty spot, but there was worse to
come in the shape of Rugeley, which we decided was one of the
drabbest and dreariest small towns we had ever seen. Fortimately,
however, its squalid cottages, neglected allotments, and odorous
tannery were soon left behind, our surroundings changing with
almost magical suddenness, so that we presently found ourselves
traversing one of the most beautiful pounds we had so far en-
countered. On the right bank the fields sloped gently upwards
to that thinly populated and little-known tract of country which
stretches northward to the great park of Chartley, last sanctuary
in England of the wild boar and of the ancient breed of wild white
cattle. Until recent times, when the herd became interbred and died
out, the birth of a black calf among them was said to be an in-
fallible portent of death in the family of Shirley, Earls Ferrers,
Lords of Chartley since the time of Henry the Third.

On our left the river wound through sunlit levels of pasture
which glowed most richly green against the steep slopes of the
Chase beyond, which were in deep shadow. These included Oak-
edge Park, Haywood Warren and the SatnaU Hills, heights of
bracken and ancient trees that have seen little change since
Plantagenet and Tudor hxmted the boar along their flanks. Below
Colwich Lock an ancient labourer, with long white side-whiskers,
clad in a sky-blue overall jacket and trousers of buff corduroy
buckled below the knee, was sitting at his cottage door'enjoying
the last of the evening sun, and waved cheerily as we passed by.
In Shuckburgh Park at Great Haywood they were loading the
last wain of a belated hay harvest, althou^ by this time the sun
had set and already a thin mist was gathering in the meadows, a
portent of September and of summer’s end. On the opposite bank
trees leaned so far and low over the water that their branches
scraped along our deck, bestrewing it with leaves and twigs, while
the stove chimney fell with a clatter, to dangle by its safety chain.
At Haywood Lock they grew on both sides of the canal, but
were taller, their branches interlacing overhead to make a tunnel
of cool green shade whose intricate pattern the water reflected
with unruffled perfection of detail. It was in this quiet, dim place
that we moor^ for the night, awaking to see moted beams of
sunUght glancing on the water through gaps in the network of

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110

branches, as through the clerestory windows of some cathedral
nave. Between the boles of the trees we could see the river spanned
by Essex Bridge, surely one of the most beautiful and least cele-
brated in En^and. It is a pack-horse bridge reminiscent of Hugh
Clopton’s bridge at Stratford, but executed in stone. To my mind
it surpasses Clopton, even if due allowance be made for its more
favoured and secluded setting. The impression of permanence
and power conveyed by the massive cut-waters of the buttresses is
perfectly counterbalanced by the graceful pitch of the arches, a
curve which is subtly emphasised by the concentric string courses
above them. Essex Bridge is an enduring memorial to the ability
of the early masons to combine simplicity and utility of con-
struction with beauty, a gift that was once as instinctive and
unselfconscious as the poetry of country speech.

Great Haywood is not only a junction of canals, for the Rivers
Trent and Sow unite just above Essex Bridge. The waters of the
Sow run clear and unpolluted from their source in the high ground
of Staffordshire’s western border, but the Trent is so black and
foul after its journey through the Pottery towns that even the grass
shrinks from its banks. For several hundred yards below their
confluence the smoky line of demarcation between the two streams
is clearly visible, and constitutes a striking natural conunentary
upon the old age and the new.

There is a second bridge worthy of note at Great Haywood.
It carries the towing path of the Trent and Mersey over the mouth
of the canal to the Severn, the breadth of its sin^e span being
remarkable in a bridge of this type. The reason for Ads is not
readily apparent, for it exceeds the combined width of the water-
way and tow-path beneath by several feet. The line of the low
balusteade is also unusual, for instead of following the curve of the
arch in the customary manner, it consists of two sli^t reverse
curves culminating in a pointed apex over the keystone. Whatever
may have prompted the canal engineers so to depart from the ortho-
dox will never be known, but the result is an arch so light in its
flight from bai± to bank, so airy and insubstantial that it might
have been inspired by a Dulac fantasy. Beside this bridge, an ivy-
covered warehouse crumbling to ruin, a dock filled with tall reeds,
and a buttered toll ofl&ce no bigger than a garden tool-shed are
all that make up this meeting-place of coast-to-coast waterways.
It seemed typical of the remote and unassuming manriftr in which
the canals make tiieir way through the countryside that the

HORNINGLOW TO HAYWOOD

111

village of Haywood, although only a quarter of a mile distant,
had remained aloof from this important junction, as though
unaware of its existence. It would have presented a very different
aspect had it been chosen as the meeting-place of railways or of
trunk roads. Green fields and tall trees whose beauty the canal
enhances would have given place to blackened railway yards or
petrol pumps and road-houses. But because the canal is a for-
gotten relic of a more leisured past, its banks are not considered
‘desirable building plots’, and so remain the haunt of coot and
heron.

Moorings, Great Haywood

Chapter XX
YOCKERTON HALL

The Trent valley once more becomes broad and shallow above
Haywood, and our journey thence to Stone, though pleasant
enough, lacked any special feature worthy of mention. It included
four locks, at Hoo Mill, Weston, Sandon and Aston, but with the
exception of these villages the canal wound through open pastures
close to the river bank and overlooked by the tree-girt slopes of
Ingestre Park, seat of the Earls of Shrewsbury. It may be recalled
that we passed two villages named Weston and Aston soon
after we left Shardlow, so it should be explained that there are two
pans of vfflages so called upon Trent, a state of affairs that must
cause no little confusion in postal sorting ofiBces,

When we landed at Stone it was to find that the well-worn
phrase we lost account of time’ had in our case literally come true.
We had believed the day to be a Friday, but the crowds of late
shop^rs aroused our suspicions, and we bought a 'Staffordshire
Evening Sentinel to discover that we had mislaid a day on our
weeks journey from Shardlow. There are two breweries and a
pottery works at Stone, while the city of Stoke is dangerously
n^, but m ^ite of this it seems to have escaped the desolation
ot Ru^ey, for to walk down the single main street from the
church pMt The Crown Hotel’, with its graceful bowed front,
IS to feel that the place is stiU at heart a small country market town

112

YOCKERTON HALL

113

One of the many respects in which the industrial district of the
Potteries differs from any other is in the sharp definition of its
boundaries. From any one of the Five Towns a sixpenny bus ride
will carry you into practically rmspoilt country. No doubt the
reason for this lies in the fact that they reached the limit of their
growth at a very early stage in the Industrial Revolution, so that,
unlike manufacturing areas of more recent date, their dormitories
have never marched far into the surrounding coimtry. Further-
more, the exclusive and highly specialised craft of the potter has
not attracted the usual drift of labour from the surrounding rural
areas. Thus it was hard to believe that at Meaford Locks, a mile
north of Stone, we were only six nules from the heart of Stoke-on-
Trent. From the rose-covered cottage at the foot, the flight of four
locks climbed in leisurely fashion up a gentle grassy slope set about
with trees in a manner reminiscent of Great Haywood. There is
something incomparably restful and unfailingly satisfying to the
eye in this combination of woodland and stiU water, so we paused
by the top lock to eat a simple lunch of bread and cheese in the
sxmshine on the foredeck. It was here that we met the first horse-
boat we had seen since we left the Oxford Canal— a boat of the
Mersey Weaver Company, travelling empty towards the Potteries.
Whenever there was any likelihood of our encotmtering horse-
drawn craft we always took good care to moor away from the
towing-path, so that we should be clear of tow-lines, but on this
particular occasion we were caught unawares, so t^t I had to
clamber on deck to pass the line over tanks, stove chimney and
shafts as die boat came by.

Soon after we drew clear of the trees of Meaford we sighted the
village of Barlaston, backed by the chimneys of the Potteries,
and half an hour later we found moorings immediately above
Trentham Park Lock, a point within easy reach of the city, but
just outside the suburbs. Here, ten years before, ‘Cressy’ had been
moored for a period of months when her former owner lived
nearby, and the old lock-keeper, recognising ho: as soon as she
hove in sight, welcomed her like an old friend. Later that evening
he presented us with a basket of the finest runner beans we had
ever seen, and when we thanked him, expressing due admiration
for their size, he explained proudly that they were a special
strain of his own nursing, which he called ‘Yockerton Wonders’.
Now, the Pottery folk have a great sense of humour, which finds a
favourite and time-honoured expression in the mischievous art

H

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of gulling the unsuspecting or inquisitive stranger, and in this
direction the name of Yockerton Hall has a prominent place. A
guileless enquiry as to the whereabouts of an individual or the
destination of some parcel or product is sufficient to set the old
joke in motion. ‘Yockerton Hall’, replies the citizen of Stoke, with
a sly wink at his fellows. The victim invariably falls heavily into
the trap by asking, to the general delight, the whereabouts of this
unheard-of place, receiving the surprised and surprising answer:
‘What, dunna tha know? It’s where there’s neither land nor water
an’ they walk about on plonks.’ Convinced that this curiously
insubstantial place was a figment of local fantasy, I was determined
not to be caught, and so replied warily that I thought the curious
conditions prevailing there were hardly likely to produce such a
fine-quality bean. To my surprise, however, he insisted— ap-
parently in all seriousness— that this narrow strip of country
between Barlaston and Trentham was in actual fact Yockerton,
I allowed myself to be half convinced, but knowing the local
ability to sustain such a joke with a poker face, and finding that my
inch-to-the-mile survey map was suspiciously uninformative, I
still have my doubts about Yockerton Hall.

Chapter XXI

TRENTHAM AND THE POTTERIES

Trentham Hall, once the seat of the Leveson-Gower famil y,
Earls Gower and Dukes of Sutherland, is beautifully placed at
the head of a large artificial lake situated between the river and
the wooded slopes of the park, which in places rise steeply to a
height of over six hundred feet. As early as 1758, before canals
were heard of in this country, it was the Earl Gower of that time
who first commissioned Brindley to survey a line of water-way
that would connect Liverpool, Hull and Bristol, and in the follow-
ing year the engineer, as his diary records, frequently visited the
Earl at Trentham ‘a bout the novogation’.

It is now many yea^ since the family left Trentham, however,
and of the great Palladian mansion only the stabling and an arbour
of the type beloved by Victorian romantics remain. Local legend
has it &at the smell of the polluted river flowing throu^ the
grounds was responsible for this exodus, and if this be true, the
inhabitants of the Potteries have to thaidc the reeking efi9[uent of
their factories for providing them with one of the finest public
parks in England. They were taking full advantage of their splen-
did playground when we walked through the park on a warm and
sunny Sunday evening. The wide, gravelled walks of the terraced
gardens sloping to a stone balustrade above the water were
thronged with promenaders, and die lake was dotted with small
boats. On one lawn the potter was trying his hand at archery, on
another at clock-golf, while he seemed to be deriving as much
amusement as his clamorous offspring from the see-saws, whirli-
gigs and swings of the children’s playground. There was a finely
built bathing-pool so set in the woods by the margin of the lake
that it did not interrupt the skilfully achieved vista of the original
landscape gardeners, also a ballroom and restaurant that were
similarly unobtrusive, and glasshouses where those who possessed
no gardens of their own could buy cut flowers to brighten the
blackness of their homes. The flowers and trees, even the grass of
the average urban park, bear the drab, dispirited look of the caged

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116

qnimflls in a ZOO, but there was little of this air of artificiality
about Trentham. The bright green lawns could not have been
more smoothly shorn, hedges of yew or box more trimly clipped,
nor could flower borders have blazed more bravely with intelli-
gently balanced masses of colour had they still been preserved for
a Duke’s pleasure, instead of being free for the enjoyment of all
who could afford a threepenny bus ride and sixpence at the turn-
stile. To a people who spend six days of every week in the heart
of a smoky industrial city the value of such an outlet is inestim-
able, and Ae general orderliness and lack of litter made it evident
that the people of the Five Towns appreciate their good fortune.

The young pottery worker and his girl who may be seen stroUing
in these gardens on any fine Sunday, or dancing in the ballroom
if it is wet, are not only infinitely better dressed than their cousins
in the south, but although often still in their teens, they are re-
markably independent and self-assured. It is more than likely that
they both work ‘on the Pot Bank’, he as an oven ‘placer’ and she
in the decorating room. Bound together by the ties of their skilled
and exclusive craft, the potters have always been a highly indi-
vidual community, in which there is no social distinction but that
of capability. It frequently transpires that Jack and his master
were bom and bred in the same humble row of cottages, and the
southerner of the so-called middle or upper classes must drop his
social pretensions if he wishes to be accepted by either. The thin
veneer of Eton and Oxford culture, often only a generation thick,
is no match for the shrewd realism of the potter, whose life is
founded upon an inherited tradition of craft. For no matter how
the more class-conscious southerner may try to conceal the fact,
he is aware that since England became a nation of industrialists
and shopkeepers the common denominator of class is no longer
one of ability and wisdom, but of irresponsible wealth.

The potter’s craft does not lend itself to organisation on modem
mass-production lines, and for this reason it is still carried on by
a prodigious number of smaU and comparatively intimate family
businesses. Thus it comes about that the pottery OAvner not only
has a thorough working knowledge of his trade which rightly
earns for him the respect of his employees, but he is on terms of
easy familiarity with them, knowing most of the older hands by
their C3mstian names. Master and man will drink tea together in
the works canteen and discuss the merits of the latest cup shape.
In this way thwe is preserved among them that spirit of com-

TRENTHAM AND THE POTTERIES

117

munity in craft which is yet another tradition of the past
that the modem industrial organisation has broken to its own
despite.

Though the immemorial art of ‘throwing’ on the potter’s wheel
has suffered eclipse in the modem pottery, the process of casting by
pouring liquid ‘slip’ into plaster-of-Paris moulds being more widely
used, the craft still demands a considerable degree of skill and
delicacy of touch. The unfired ware or ‘bisque’ is naturally ex-
tremely fragile, and the operations of ‘bisque placing’ and ‘setting
in’ are both highly skilled. The first consists of packing the ware
into the earthenware ‘setters’ and ‘saggars’ in which it is fired, and
the second of stackmg the saggars in the bisque oven for firing.
Every craft has a language all its owm, and that of the potter is no
exception. Thus the head placer is known as a ‘cod placer’, and
the ladder on which he stands as a ‘horse’.

Time and temperature are as critical in the firing of a pottery
oven as they are in the brewing of beer, and the fireman is no mere
coal-heaver. An attempt has been made on the Continent to
mechanise this process by the introduction of an electrically heated
oven with automatic temperature control, through which the ware
travels on a slow-moving conveyor, but the conservative potters of
Staffordshire are not easily wooed by the tempting bait of mechan-
isation, preferring to trust their valuable ware to human skill rather
than to a fallible electricity supply emanating from some remote
source. The firing of the bisque oven takes fifty-five hours, in
which time fifteen tons of coal are consumed. The skill lies in
maintaining a slow and steady rise in temperature to the maximum
of 1,300 degrees Centigrade and an equally steady cooling. Test-
pieces of clay placed in small peep-holes in the walls of the oven
are a guide to the progress of .the fimng. When the oven has been
allowed to cool for a further forty-eight hours it is emptied, and
when it has been scoured, the fired bisque ware is passed to the
‘dipper’, who applies the glaze by dipping each piece in a tub of
powdered borax-flint-lead glass mixed with water to the consist-
ency of cream. This looks a simple operation, but generations of
skill inform the dextrous, almost careless flick of the wrist which
causes the glaze to spread evenly over the surface of the ware. The
ware is then once more packed into saggars and fired in the ‘glost
oven’. A firing of twenty-six hours is then required to set the
glaze, but the same interval as before is allowed for cooling. After
it has passed this stage the ware is stored in the ‘white warehouse’

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118

until it is required for decoration, after which it receives the third
and last firing in the enamel kiln. This occupies only fourteen
hours, and the temperature is considerably lower.

The pottery designer paints his pattern upon the china, but
when it is decided to put a design into production a copper-plate
engraving is made, from which transfer papers are taken to apply
the outline of the design to the pottery. Colours and banding are
then filled in by hand by the decorators. The design department
of a famous pottery is as bombarded with the efforts of aspiring
designers as a publisher with manuscripts or the Patent Ofllce with
specifications of perpetual-motion machines. Needless to say, a
minute proportion’are purchased. The modem pottery designs do
not, in my opinion, compare with the unaffected grace of the old
Staffordstoe forms of fifty or more years ago, and we saw nothing
to equal our own Gloucestershire slip-ware, for aU its technical
crudity. There appears to be too much striving for effect, which
results in over-pretentiousness, and an insistence upon novelty to
the exclusion of traditional form or artistic quality. The designer
at the pottery we visited admitted this, but maintained that his job
was to give the public what it wanted, and that the modem designs
were the answer to that demand. I would like to believe that this
is the truth, though it is difficult to determine, in this case, which is
the cart and which the horse, the producer or the consumer.
There can be no doubt that the modem manufacturer has been
responsible for the lamentable decline in popular taste by blud-
geoning the public into accepting his shoddy mass-produced goods
by means of mass advertising and the elimination of competition.
Yet, because it is a skilled craft, and since good or bad designs are
equally costly to produce, I believe that the pottery trade has not
been a party to this debasement, but has been forced to pander to
it in order that it may survive.

The slip from which fine bone china is made is a composite sub-
stance consisting of one part Cornish china clay or kaolin, one
part china stone of the same origin, and two parts of calcined beef
bones, which give the china its distinguishing toughness and trans-
lucency. A considerable quantity of the china clay and stone used
is still carried by coasting steamers from the ports of Fowey and
St Austell to the Mersey, where it is transferred to narrow boats
and conveyed to the Potteries via the River Weaver, the Anderton
Vertical lift and the Trent and Mersey Canal. It was this vital
water conomunication which was responsible for the growth of the

TRENTHAM AND THE POTTERIES 119

Pottery towns from a row of straggling villages housing no more
than 7,000 inhabitants, to a densely populated district of 120,000
persons a hundred years later. The growth of Manchester follow-
ing the construction of the Duke of Bridgewater’s canal, still
referred to by boatmen as the ‘Duke’s Cut’, was equally meteoric.
Few people realise in how great a measure the forgotten canals
contributed to the vast upheaval of the Industrial Revolution,
which changed not only the face of England, but the whole course
of our lives in a period incredibly brief— so brief, indeed, that we
are still frantically endeavouring to induce our toddling social
order to keep pace with the giant stride of the machine, and
bitterly regretting, like Goethe’s sorcerer’s apprentice, that we
should have gaily pronounced the spell which set the genie to
work before learning how to control it. Meanwhile, by one of
those strange anomalies with which the pages of history are filled,
the canal— the spell which loosed the machine — ^has not merely
fallen into obscurity, but has become the last remaining stronghold
of a people whose way of life has survived the whole course of the
revolution substantially unchanged, and who therefore retain to
this day many of the characteristics of the pre-machine age
peasant. The canal has also become so much a natural part of the
rural scene that it is almost impossible to associate it with the
great towns it has brought into being. Yet to realise the conditions
existing in England when James Brindley set about the building
of his canals is to appreciate the vast changes which have occurred
in the last hundred and fifty years.

Young in his ‘Sk Months’ Tour’ of 1770 relates, with the
typical self-righteous mtveti of the period, that the inhabitants
of North Staffordshire were devoted to ‘laziness, drunkenness, tea-
drinking and debauchery’, while John Wesley, who visited the
district on a preaching tour, was pelted with clods of earth for his
pains, concluding, somewhat understandably, that ‘their manners
were coarse’, and adding that he found them given to brutal
amusements such as bull-baiting, cock-throwing and goose-riding.
From these comments it is easy to picture the conflict still waging
with mutual intolerance between the old full-blooded rural order,
which, though already impoverished and debased, was not yet
dead, and the new spirit of repressive puritanism which was the
first child of the commercial age. Of the prevailing conditions in
the coimtry at that time Samud Smiles gives an excellent impres-
sion in his ‘Life of James Brindley’. Although referring to this par-

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ticular district of the Midlands, it applies equally to the rest of
the country.

‘The earthenware manufacture,’ he writes, ‘though in its infancy,
had already made considerable progress, but, like every other
branch of industry at that time, its further development was greatly
hampered by the wretched state of the roads. Throughout Staf-
fordshire they were as yet, for the most part, narrow, deep, cir-
cuitous, miry and inconvenient ; barely passable with rude waggons
in summer, and almost impassable even with pack-horses in
winter. Yet the principal materials used in the manufacture of
pottery, especially of the best kinds, were necessarily brought from
a great distance— flint stones from the south-eastern ports of Eng-
land and clay from Devonshire and Cornwall. The flints were
brought by sea to Hull and the clay to Liverpool. From Hull the
materials were brought up the Trent to Willington; and the clay
was in like manner brought from Liverpool up the Weaver to
Winsford in Cheshire. Considerable quantities of clay were also
conveyed in boats from Bristol, up the Severn to Bridgnorth and
Bewdley. From these various points the materials were conveyed
by land carriage, mostly on the backs of horses, to the towns m
the potteries where they were worked up into earthenware and
china. The manufactured articles were returned for export in the
same rude way. Large crates of pot-ware were slung across horses’
backs, and thus conveyed to their respective ports, not only at
great risk of breakage and pilferage, but also at heavy cost

‘The indispensable article of salt, manufactured at the Cheshire
Wiches, was in like manner carried on horses’ backs all over the
country and reached almost a fabxilous price by the time it was
sold two or three counties oflF. About a hundred and fifty pack-
horses in gangs were also occupied in going weekly from Man-
chester, through Stafford, to Bewdley and Bridgnorth loaded
with woollen and cotton cloth for exportation. Even com, coal,
lime and ironstone were conveyed in the same way, and the opera-
tions of agriculture, as of manufacture, were alike injuriously
impeded. There were no shops in the Potteries, the people being
supplied with wares and drapery by packmen and hucksters, or
from Newcastle-under-Lyme, which was the only town in the
neighbourhood worthy of the name.’

This is Smiles’ picture of England on the eve of the Industrial
Revolution, the Bigland from which we have travelled so fast and
far. Can it be wondered that we stand bewildered?

Chapter XXII
INDUSTRIAL LANDSCAPE

Because the canal was the nucleus around which the Potteries
developed, we formed a better general impression of the district
from the water than was possible in the co nfining maze of narrow,
cobbled streets. Planning to cross the border of Cheshire before
nightfall, we made an early start from Trentham Park Lock, and
were soon passing the collieries of the Stafford Coal and Iron
Company — ^monstrous black slag-heaps, droning fans and gaimt
pithead gears whose spinning wheels whirled in shrouds of drifting
steam from the winding houses.

^e approach to Stoke presented a scene of utter desolation and
ruin, on the one hand a dismal water-logged waste caused by the
subsidence of old worked-out coal seams, on the other derelict blast
furnaces, cold and rust-reddened. Beyond these we passed two
ruined locomotive works, whose silent shops, with their shattered
windows, constituted a mute but eloquent wa rning to those who
entrust their livelihood to the shiftingand fickle fortunes of mechan-
ised industry. After this sombre scene the low comic relief pro-
vided by a warehouse full of chamber-pots was very welcome. I
had supposed that this homely utensil, like the hip-bath and the
mahogany commode, was a Victorian relic fast becoming obsolete,
but if the smoking ovens of this pottery were any criterion, their
manufacture stiU constitutes a profitable branch of the industry.

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Mooring by Stoke wbarf, we walked into the city to buy sup-
plies. This was not easy, for in a district where so many house-
wives work the day through in the decorating-rooms, the modern
method of cooking with a can-opener is so popular that butchers
and greengrocers were few and far between, the streets being lined
by the shop fronts of cheap chain grocers stacked with canned
foods. One shop, however, was strange to our eyes — ^that of the
bird fancier, his window filled with packets of bird seeds and
medicines of every sort, while through a doorway festooned with
gaily coloured cages floated the rich fluting of roller canaries and
the thin, gossiping chatter of budgerigars. Just as the potter’s
favourite hobbies of pigeon and whippet racing are a legacy from
his bull-baiting and cock-fighting ancestors, so perhaps his love of
birds may be derived from forgotten associations of ever earlier
origin.

Situated among the broken southern foothills of the Peak dis-
trict of Derbyshire, the Potteries present some unique industrial
landscapes. As we climbed the four locks out of Stoke, the grimy
slate roofs of cottages and factories rose tier upon tier towards the
black tower of Shelton church, while mean streets covered with a
geometrical pattern the opposite heists of Hartshill and Basford.
These were indistinct in the haze of steam and smoke which rose
from the valley bottom, like steam from a cauldron. But the domi-
nant, inescapable feature of the scene were the pottery ovens.
Rows of them met the eye on every side. Shaped like gigantic
bottles, blackened and squat, those that were belching dense coils
of smoke from their necks looked as actively satanic as a volcano,
but those that stood cold and dead had an appearance that was
strangely ancient and oriental. They might well have been the
pagodas of some temple to strange gods, or monuments that
marked the burial-places of kings who held court when the sabre-
toothed tiger ranged the forests of Europe.

At dusk, when the waning light softens its stark outlines and the
sunset sky flaunts sable banners of drifting smoke, or at night,
when street lamps star the hills with points of light and the flare
ftom open furnace doors flickers skyward, it is impossible to deny
this rolling forest of bricks and mortar a certain sombre grandeur.
The men of North Staffordshire are proud of their smoky sky, for
to them it is the symbol of prosperity, and local stationers display
picture postcards of typical ‘smokescapes’ for the benefit of rare
visitors. Though trade was said to be slack, there appeared to our

‘ PoriERY Ovens . . . Shaped like Gigantic Bottles ’

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124

eyes, fresh from the country, to be enough smoke in the air to
please the most pessimistic potter, as we approached Etruria
summit lock and the junction of the canal to Leek and Froghall,
yet another branch of the ‘Grand Trunk’, Just beyond the lock
head we passed Josiah Wedgewood’s famous pottery, and pre-
sently found ourselves in the heart of the Shelton Steel Works,
scene of H. G. Wells’ macabre short story ‘The Cone’. ‘Cressy’s’
white windows, that for so long had seen unfold before them a
slowly moving pattern of field, hedgerow and tree, now looked
directly into a clangorous rolling mill, lofty as the nave of a
cathedral, where white-hot billets of steel were being flattened as
easily as pastry under a rolling-pin, or grappled by the electric
cranes which rumbled high overhead. Workmen, their faces
streaked with sweat and grime, looked up from their task of feed-
ing the rolls to grin and nod, while at one point where the crane
track projected over the canal a crane driver leaned from his cabin
directly above our deck to call after us, ‘What about a trip?’ A
damp white mist shot throu^ by the sunlight with miniature rain-
bows momentarily enveloped us as we passed the cooling towers,
and beyond these the coke-ovens were belching steam and flame
alternately. Opposite them, towering above us, reared the fiery
heart of this monstrous organisation— the blast furnaces. Lifts
were creeping up and down their pitiless steel sides, feeding them
with fuel, and, as we passed, one of the cones that close their
throats was lowered to admit a charge, the air above shimmering
in the sudden blast of intense heat which shot skywards.

A sharp turn under a bridge, and a canyon of slag as barren
and desolate as the mountains of the moon hid this modern
Gdhenna from our sight. Not a blade of grass finds foothold on
these wastes, and the smoke of internal fires filters through fissures
m their lava-like crust. Occasionally, owing to this internal bum-
mg, a large area will cave in, subjecting the unfortunate inhabitants^
of nearby streets to a shower of fine ashes and grit. These moun-
tainous tips are also the scene of the steelworks’ most spectacular
display. Just as we emerged from their shadow on to a long em-
bankment, we saw a locomotive panting up to the summit, pushing
before it a ladle of slag, and appearing from our vantage below to
be no bi^er titan a fly. Minute figures appeared, coupling the
chain which operated Ae tipping mechanism to the front draw-
hook of the engine. Then the latter ran backwards, and the ladle
discharged its contents down the precipitous slope. On its journey

INDUSTRIAL LANDSCAPE

125

from the furnaces the slag had cooled enough to form a hard
outer crust, so that for some yards it bounded along like a great
boulder, until, striking an obstacle, it burst with a flash of light
that was blinding even in the bright sunlight, and its molten heart
coursed downwards like some infernal mountain torrent, a livid
vein set with flickering tongues of flame.

As we approached the forest of pottery ovens that was Burslem
it was difficult to believe that we were still travelling over the same
canal which had slumbered beneath the trees at C^eat Haywood,
for it had become a busy highway thronged with boats. There
were chocolate-brown Cowburn and Cowpar motor-boats from
Manchester, all named after wild birds, and carrying cargoes of
chemicals in tanks or carboys, horse-boats of the Mersey-Weaver
and Anderton Companies, laden with coal, clay or stone, and even
an occasional ‘number one’. Their external finish did not compare
with that of the Oxford canal boats, but through open cabin door-
ways we caught the gleam of polished brass knobs and rails, while
many of their crews were dressed in the true tradition, captains in
corduroys, broad-belted, thek wives wearing the graceful full-
skirted dresses, tight-waisted and most elaborately pleated.

Beyond Burslem we passed by a busy boatyard where we heard
the familiar sound of caulking mallets, while at Longport wharf
many boats were unloading their da22lmg white cargoes of china
clay. At Chatterley by Tunstall the seemingly interminable vista
of ovens and chimneys began to thin out, the valley to close in
upon us, and soon we sighted the portals of the two tunnels under
Harecastle hill. We had reached the head-waters of the Trent, and
the northern boundary of the Potteries.

Chapter XXUI
HARECASTLE TUNNELS

The greatest obstacle in the path of James Brindley’s canal was
the ridge of high ground, a continuation of the Pennine Chain,
which divides the valley of the upper Trent from the great plain of
Cheshire and extends as far south as the Wrekin in Shropshire.
Harecastle HiU being the narrowest point of this ridge, it was here
that the engineer decided to drive a tunnel 2,880 yards long. No
work of such magnitude had ever been contemplated in eighteenth-
century England, and the project appeared so fantastic that it was
referred to by local sceptics as ‘Brindley’s air castle’. Neverthe-
less, as soon as the Act authorising the construction of the canal
had been passed, Brindley set to work upon his ‘impossible’ task.
He fibrst sank vertical shafts at various points along the hill-top
down to canal level, the spoil being drawn up by horse-gins, while
the working were kept free from water by windmills. As the work
progressed, however, water was encountered in such quantities
that the wind pumps were no longer adequate, but Brindley was
nothing daunted, having actually counted on the presence of such

12$

HARECASTLE TUNNELS

127

springs for the necessary supply of water to the summit level. He
therefore erected a beam pumping engine, or ‘fire-engine’ as it was
then called, which, working night and day, effectually kept the
waters under controL Meanwhile the attitude of the local inhabi-
tants changed swiftly from ridicule to awe, for in 1767 a resident
of Burslem wrote to a distant friend : ‘Gentlemen come to view our
eighth wonder of the world, the subterraneous navigation which is
cutting by the great Mr. Brindley, who handles rocks as easily as
plum-pies, and makes the four elements subservient to his will’.

The great engineer never lived to see the work completed, for he
died in September 1772 as a result of a chill contracted during his
smvey of the Caldon Branch, and although the rest of the canal
works from Mersey to Trent had long since been finished, it was
not until 1777 that the tunnel was at last opened, after eleven
years of unremitting toil by six hundred men. Even so it proved a
serious handicap to traffic, for the shaft was extremely small, being
only nine feet wide and twelve feet high, so that boats could not
pass each other. Since it took two hours to ‘leg’ through, there
being no towing path, the delay and congestion can readily be
realised, and it is not surprising to read that fierce arguments,
frequently leading to blows, occurred among the boat crews wait-
ing at the tunnel mouths for the privilege of the next turn throu^.

In 1824 the canal company decided to remedy this state of
affairs, and sought the advice of Brindley’s successor, Thomas
Telford. His solution was to construct a new tunnel parallel with
the old, so great being the advance of civil engineering in the inter-
vening years that although of far larger section, it was completed
in less than three years. For ninety years thereafter both tunnels
continued in use, the old tunnel carrying the southbound traffic,
and vice versa, but in 1914 an electric tug was installed in the new
tunnel, and the old, though it remained theoretically navigable for
a few more years, soon fell into disuse. The subsidence of old
workings has since still further reduced the restricted headroom,
so that it is now quite impassable, the weed-grown entrance, little
larger than that of a city sewer, being all that the canal traveller
can now see of Brindley’s ‘eighth wonder*.

The Harecastle tunnel tug must be one of the most curious craft
ever constructed. Drawing its current from an overhead cable, it
has no propeller, but hauls itself along on a second cable laid in
the bed of the canal, picking it up on a winch and paying it out
astern. Owing to the possibility of their screws fouling this sub-

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128

merged cable, motor as well as horse-drawn craft are compelled
to make use of this weird contraption, so, as it was not in sight
when we arrived at the tunnel mouth, we moored up and had tea.
Before long a string of horses appeared over the hill, while from
the dark depths ahead a distant muttering slowly grew to a pro-
digious groaning and grinding sound, like that of a decrepit tram-
car climbing a steep hill. At long last the tug crawled out into the
sunshine, and for a few minutes the tunnel mouth was a scene of
great activity, as the string of boats were detached, engines started,
and horses re-attached to their respective boats. It was then our
turn to be taken in tow, so we moved ahead till we were beneath
the overhead wire.

One narrow boat always accompanies the tug, its cabin doing
duty as a ‘guard’s van’ for the old man who issues the boatmen
with ‘tug tickets’ on receipt of their fares. It was therefore to the
stem of this boat that we made fast. Driver and ‘guard’ then went
into deep conference over the height of ‘Cressy’s’ cabin, shaking
their heads so dubiously that we began gloomily to visualise the
prospect of having to beat an ignominious retreat. Subsidences
have affected the headroom in the new tunnel also, and the pres-
ence of a towing-path, which forces boats to hug the side wall,
does not help matters. Anticipating difficulty, we had already
removed the water-tank from the roof, placing it, filled, on the
fore-deck to ballast her, but this, in the opinion of these experts,
was not enou^. A pile of sand-bags round the electricity sub-
station saved ffie situation. When these had been stacked for’ard
and a baulk of timber lashed slantwise from the gunwale to the fore-
comer of the cabin top to act as a fender, the tug crew declared
themselves satisfied, so, as there was still time in hand before we
were due to start, we sat talking in the sunshine on the fore-deck.

Even on the canals they have built, the names of Brindley and
Telford have been forgotten, so that it was a surprise to find that
the tug driver was as weU-ioformed as any historian regarding the
building of the two tunnels. More interesting still, he recalled
Tumhurst, where Brindley sj^nt the last years of his life. He had
actually attended the demolition sale, where he had purchased
some iron-hard oak timbers from this old mansion, once the seat
of the Bellot family, said to have been the last in England to em-
ploy that admirable figure the family fool, but of late years sur-
rotmded and undermined by collieries. He had also traversed the
old tunnd in a small boat before it became impassable even to the
lightest craft.

HARECASTLE TUNNELS

129

The ‘guard’ was eyeing his watch and we were preparing to set
forth when we heard the xznmistakable beat of an approaching
motor punctuated by prolonged blasts of a siren imploring us
to wait ‘Come along, then,’ the tug driver admonished, and
presently a pair of FeUows Morton boats swung round the turn
and made fast to our stem. Then with a jerk we were off at last.

For all its prodigious noise, the tug travelled even more slowly
than a fully laden horse-boat, so that the dark journey seemed
interminable. Lashed as she was bow and stern, there was no need
to steer ‘Cressy’, so we sat among the sandbags on the fore-deck
looking into the darkness ahead. Vivid blue sparks spluttered
from the overhead conductor of the tug, and in the bar of light
which streamed through the aft doors of the guard’s cabin we
could watch the xmeven roof of dripping brickwork skimming
perilously close to our cabin top. At one point the tunnel was
intersected by another at right angles, a relic this of a system of
subterranean canals which Brindley drove direct to the coal-faces
of his collieries at Golden HiU, thus not only draining the pits, but
enabling the coal to be hauled away without having first to be
drawn to the surface. These ingenious tmderground waterways
have not been explored within living memory, for the coal-seams
at canal level have long been exhausted, but the guard could re-
member in his early youth an old boatman who had worked
through them. The boats, which were drawn along by means of
staples fixed in the walls, were necessarily very small and finely
built, of only ten tons capacity, in order that they could negotiate
the sharp right-angle turns between one tunnel and anotha:.

We were nearly three-quarters of an hour below ground before
we crept out into the evening sunlight at Hardings Wood, tran-
shipped our ballast, re-started the engine and bade farewell to the
tug crew. We had scarcely lost sight of the tunnel mouth before
we passed the junction of the Macclesfield canal. This waterway
branches off to the south, but shortly afterwards crosses over the
Trent and Mersey by an aqueduct and heads due north, along the
edge of the Derbyshire uplands, to its junction with the Peak
Forest Canal at Marple. A further half-hour’s travelling brou^t
us to oTir day’s objective, ‘The Red Bull Inn’ at Lawton, on the
Cheshire border, once a well-known stage on the pack-horse route
between the Potteries and the Mersey. It was almost dark by the
time we had moored at Red Bull ^arf, and astern the lights
of the Five Towns made a glare in the sky over Harecastle
Hill.

I

Chapter XXIV
THE VALE ROYAL

Of our day’s journey from Red Bull to Middlewich there is little
to be told, except that it involved a deal of hard labour, the canal
descending into the great plain of Cheshire by a seemingly endless
succession of thirty-two locks. Owing to the heavier traffic on this
section, these ‘Cheshire locks’, as the boatmen call them, are
arranged in duplicate, an interconnecting paddle allowing a full
lock to discharge into its empty fellow, so that one acts as a
side pond to the other. All day long we slowly worked our way
downwards while the solitary bastion of Mow Cop and the long
scarp line of ‘the backbone of England’ receded into the distance
astern. Not only were the locks very heavy to work, but the
surroundings depressing in the extreme — a. dreary industrial
hinterland that was neither town nor country. The poverty-
stricken farms and ruined factories of Rode Heath, Hassall Green
and Wheelock spoke only too plainly of a rural life transformed
by a brief period of industrial expansion, which, having laid waste
the land and claimed its husbandmen, had passed on to factories
new. The only redeeming feature of the day was the number of
horse-boats that we met — ^more thanwehad everbeforeencountered
on the whole of our journey. Among their crews were some fine
types of the old race of canal folk, one boat captain attracting our
attention particularly. With his clear skin, proud aquiline features

130

THE VALE ROYAL

131

and dark eyes, he was a perfect specimen of true Romany stock.
His face was fittingly framed by the dark ringlets which curled
from beneath his cap, and as he moved about the locks, every
movement graceful, his gold earrings flashed in the sunlight.

At dusk the tall chimneys of the Middlewich salt works were a
welcome sight ahead, for we knew that they marked the end of the
locks and the gateway to open country. We had had our fill of the
industrial Midlands by this time, and could think only of quiet
waters and green fields.

Our seventy-six-mile journey on the Trent and Mersey Canal
came to an end the next morning, when we entered the Shropshire
Union Canal at Wardle Lock Junction. Like most of the Shrop-
shire canal system, the Middlewich branch is one of the more
recent waterways constructed by Thomas Telford, and although
it is now well over a century old, it is habitually referred to by
Trent and Mersey boatmen as ‘the New Cut’. Following the edge
of a shelf of hi^ ground on the ri^t bank of the River Weaver,
its more recent origin was at once manifested in the bold embank-
ments and cuttings by which it crossed the narrow, wooded valleys
of tributary streams or the intervening ridges, obstructions
which Brindley would have carried his canal many tortuous
miles to avoid. Though we were actually travelling at no great
height, the level of the Cheshire Plain was such that our view from
the deck commanded a fine sweep of country stretching north-
wards over the Winsford Flashes to Delamere Forest, and south-
west to the Peckforton HiUs and that dominating feature of the
Cheshire scene, Beeston Crag. Perched secure upon tiie eyrie of its
precipitous slope, the ruined keep of Beeston still holds a brooding
watch upon the plains from the Wrekin to the Breiddens and from
Mow Cop to the Marches of Wales. Built by Ranulph de Blunde-
ville, Earl of Chester, when he returned from the Holy Land in
1220 with the memories of the great fortresses of the first crusaders
still fresh in his mind, the castle’s eventful history did not come
to an end until after the Civil Wars, during which it was occupied
successively by Cavalier and Roundhead. It was at Beeston that
that unhappy king, Richard H, left his treasure, only to lose it
when the garrison surrendered at the approach of Henry Boling-
broke, and for centuries from the castle’s upper ward beacons
have flared their message to the yeomen of the Vale Royal, spread-
ing the tidings of the death of togs or of the approach of Spam’s
Armada.

NARROW BOAT

132

As the sun sank towards the shoulder of Peckforton, the subtle
alchemy of twilight transformed this broad vale of woodland and
pasture into a dim sea that lapped the knees of the far hills. We
had reached a point where the bank between the canal and the
Weaver was particularly steep, the river meandering in great loops
through the levels directly below, its slow-moving surface reflecting
the evening sky like a burnished shield. In the middle distance the
stream was spanned by a bridge of several arches, and on the
farther bank a church tower rose above encircling trees to catch
the last rays of the sun, which had already left the roofs of the village
which clustered about it. This, we learned from our map, was the
village of Church MinshuU, and here we made our first prolonged
stay since we had left Barrow-upon-Soar.

We could scarcely have chanced upon a better surviving ex-
ample of the traditional English village had we purposefully
scoured the countryside. Here was no show village of stock-
broker-Tudor as false as a harlot’s smile, and, more surprising still,
it had escaped the fate of becoming an industrial dormitory,
Crewe, aptly described by one of the villagers as ‘no more than a
ruck o’ houses’, being perilously near. Happily immune from
tiiese evils, and too unassuming to attract the sightseer, Church
MinshuU shelters securely under Weaver bank, a self-sufiScient
rural community that in numbers and activity has changed but
little through the centuries. The reasonfor this survival undoubtedly
Hes in the comparative prosperity of local agriculture. Never
before on our journey had we seen such well-drained pastures,
trim hedgerows or prosperous farmsteads. They were a sight to
gladden eyes grown accustomed to leagues of derelict land fast
reverting to wilderness. Yet there was the same conspicuous lack
of arable land as elsewhere, the Cheshire farmer’s great cow-byres
representing the mainstay of his livelihood. Possessing the finest
dairy pasture in England, he is a milk manufacturer, and, as such,
he has the better been able to withstand conditions which have
brought the orthodox mixed farmer, who is the backbone of a
healthy agricultural community, to the brink of ruin. Thus it is
that conditions in the Vale Royal are not as rosy as they at first
appear, although prosperity of any sort is preferable to neglect
and decay, if the lease of rural life in villages such as Church
MinshuU is thereby prolonged.

Barbridoe

Chester XXV
CHURCH MINSHULL

Church Minsholl contained many esscellent exam^es of the
timber-framed house built in the genuine regional style, inter-
spersed with a few substantial farms of brick, a medium which
superseded timber as the local building material from the eighteenth
century onwards. Only one cottage represented our enli^tened
age— a featureless block of raw brick and slate which replaced an
older building demolished under the Slum Clearance Act, whose
misa pplication is the latest menace to the English village. This
incongruous newcomer might have been transplanted from the
suburbs of Crewe, a tawdry paper rose dropped in a bed of wild
flowers.

In a vale country such as this, where timber was once the most
plentiful material, the tasks of Ae quarrymen and masons of the
hills fell to woodmen and master carpenters. These characteristic
walls of timber fr aming filled with lath and plaster work were the
result, and their survival is an enduring tribute not only to the
surpassing skill with which these local craftsmen wrought, but to
the excellence of their materials. Because we have squandered
the resources of forest and coppice with no thought of the future,
such timber is no longer known, and our impoverished erections
of brick and stucco compare to our discredit with these old build-

133

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134

ings, whose every ageless beam cries eloquent reproof. It seemed
most fitting that the church and the inn should stand side by side
in easy intimacy at the centre of the village, for these immemorial
mstitutions are the core of rural life. Side by side the living and the
dead rested after their labours, for the gleaming and spotless
tap-room of ‘The Old Badger’ was not a stone’s throw from
the quiet churchyard. The two buildings seemed to regard
each other with the benign tolerance of old age, the church tower
overpeering the wall of the inn yard, and the mn windows gazing
undismayed at the tombs of patrons long dead and gone, ^ one
who would with calm acceptance say : ‘In the midst of life we are
in death’.

In the church the ancient parish register brought home as nothing
else could the strength and permanence of those ties which once
held the coimtrymen to their land and to each other. This record,
wonderfully preserved and legible, dated back to the sixteenth
century, the same names recurring in birth, marriage and death
generation after generation. To turn these pages of heavy vellum
was to realise how, m the span of a Hfetime, the bloodless revolu-
tion of the machine has loosed a bond which has survived plague,
persecution and war for at least six hundred turbulent years.

Most remarkable of all the long-dead yeomen of Cheshire re-
corded here was one Thomas Damme of Leighton, who, it is
written, ‘was buried on the twentieth of Februarie 1649, being of
the age of seven score and fourteen’. Assuming this entry to be
correct— and there seems no good reason to doubt its authentic-
ity— old Thomas Damme beats the better-known Shropshire
patriarch, Thomas Parr of Glyn, by two years. Both these stalwart
countrymen attained their great age under conditions which we
now regard as barbaric, and without the aid of our much-advertised
patent medicines, whose names are legion, and whose popularity
does not flatter our much-vaunted standard of living. We shall
not see such years again until we have recovered sufficient sanity’
to simplify the pattam of our lives.

From the churchyard ^te it was possible to look right and left
along the village street, from the Post Office at one end to the
smithy and wheelwright’s shop at the other. The post-mistress,
white-haired and benevolent, as such a personage should be,
supplied the children with the same sticky, vivid sweets as their
mothers and grandmothers sucked when they, too, were young.
Of an evening, when the menfolk repair to ‘The Badger’ for a

CHURCH MINSHULL 135

glass of mild, the housewives foregather in the post ofiSce for a
gossip, on the pretext of a stamp or half a pound of tea.

The music of the street was the clink of the blacksmith’s hammer,
and there was seldom a day when a pair of cart-horses patiently
awaiting their turn to be shod, or a new-painted cart wi& scarlet
shafts up-reared, were not to be seen standing outside his forge, for
Mr, Eggerton was wheelwright as well as smith. The wind of
increased motor taxation had swept much well-merited business
into a shop redolent of paint and new-hewn timber. Gigs and
traps which local farmers had dragged from long years of retire-
ment in dim and dusty cartsheds shone bravely with new paint
and varnish, their frames and shafts, wheel-spokes and felloes
all delicately lined out to contribute to that rich and graceful
finish which the invention of the cellulose spray gun has blown
into the past. One gig bore proudly a hand-painted crest, proof
positive that the hand of this craftsman had lost nothing of its
cunning.

Of the several institutions diat contributed to that self-sufficient
and corporate whole of village life, the mill was among the most
important, but because the farmer no longer brings his com to be
ground, nor the cottager his humble gleanings, it has generally
suffered eclipse of recent years. Yet we discovered that the
waters of the Weaver still turned the wheels of Minshull Mill,
the enterprising miller not only grinding cattle-meal for the local
farmers, but supplying the whole village with electric current at a
paltry rate, in defiance of the local supply companies. Bom of a
family of millers, he had taken over the concern in a derelict
condition, and the fact that he was now deriving a comfortable
livelihood from it refutes the popular conception of the water-mill
as a picturesque ‘by-gone’ of no practical value.

For all its wheels and shafte, anything less like a factory than
Minshull Mill would be difficult to imagine. The dim interior was
heavy with the inunitable smell of musty sacks and dust of fresh-
ground meal, a compound that is incense to the imagination.
Like the rime of an autumn frost, the flour had whitened the cob-
webs which hung from the rafters, and the hands of generations
of millers had polished the woodwork of bins and traps to a
smooth, honey-coloured bloom. From beneath the floor the water
boiling imder the mill wheels made distant thunder, a de^
undercurrent of sound to which were added the rumble of the
stones and the subdued chatter of the gearing. This was the

NA.RROW BOAT

136

ancient voice of the mill — no high-pitched, distracting clamour,
but a soothing rhythm, as measured and purposeful, as tireless
and enduring, as the cycle of the seasons. The miller remains as
close to the heart of essential things as the ploughman with his
team or the shepherd at watch over his flocks.

A breakdown of this machinery was practically unknown,
although it had been running for centuries. The two undershot
water wheels had not needed repair within living memory; they
were fifteen feet in diameter, their naves formed of the trunks of
weU-grown oak trees with the bark still upon them. The gearing
was paired, wood meshing into iron, the best combination for
silence and durability, but in the rare event of a tooth breaking
the miller sent for a millwright from the Potteries who had not
forgotten the art of shaping a new tooth, morticing and pegging
it into place. Crab-apple — that magic wood of the Druids — ^has
been found the most suitable for this purpose, and the miller of
MmshuU kept some by him in case of need.

In mediaeval times, and before the enclosures destroyed the
truly socialistic character of the village community, the millpr
was paid in kind, claiming his portion or ‘knaveship’ with a measure
called a ‘toll-dish’. In this connection Messrs. Hopkins and
Freese, m their book on the English Windmill, quote the following
extract from the Red Paper Book of Colchester :

‘Furst, the sise of a Myller is that he have no mesure at his myU
but it be sised and sealed accordyng un to the Kyng’s standard,
and he to have in every bussheU whete a quart for the gryndyng,
and if he fett (fetch) itt another quart for the fettyng ; and of every
busshell malte a pynt for the gryndyng, and if he fett itt anor for
the fettyng. . . .’

Monetary payment was substituted by an Act of George HI,
and now the country miller seldom or never grinds com at all,
though there can be no comparison in nourishment value between
the old stone-ground flour and the devitalised white flour produced
by the modern roller null. From the same authority on early
mills come these remarks on the process of stone-grinding by a
veteran miller.

‘In the so-called old-fashioned process,’ he says, ‘which every
miller knows in his heart to be the only real process, the grain is
dropped through a hole in the centre of the upper stone. The
millstones are dressed diagonally, the effect being to grind the
wheat in a circular movmient converging towards the centre.

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137

and the germ of the grain — a tiny nut which is oily and greasy — is
dusted and pulverised by the dry stone into part of the flour from
which it cannot be separated.

‘This flour, which is swept from the outer side of the stones into
a trough which runs round the mill, is the real wholemeal flour.
It is afterwards dressed throu^ silks to remove the bran, thus
leaving the ‘white’ flour — ^in colour a light cream. . . . The old
despised windmills and water-mills gave the people the very best
flour obtainable, and it is a thousand pities that they are not
in use today.’

If ever a revival of public taste demanded stone-ground flour,
MinshuU Mill could supply it, the redressing and setting of the
stones (‘French bxirrs’ for com, ‘peaks’ for other grains) being the
only alteration necessary. At present, however, we give our cattle
the benefit of a process we deny to ourselves, and if we do not soon
mend our ways there will be no millers left to dress a stone for '
wheat.

The road down to the mill was set with cobbles so fine that it
resembled a shingle beach. Not a great while ago, we were told,
these extended the length of the village street, while in the broad
space before the smithy, at the meeting of two ways, there was a
green where stood a solitary tree, its bole circled by a wooden bench.
One can only imagine the children at play and the old men sitting
at ease in the evening sun, for now all has been swept away by a tide
of black tarmacadam, chequered with painted lines and symbols.
To see it made me more than ever thankful that we had chosen to
travel the only roads in England which are beyond Ihe power of
County Councils to deface.

It was this funereal road alone that brought the twentieth
century to Chmch MinshuU, for at ni^t, when the street was dark
and stud, the viUage was ageless. Only immemorial country sounds
did not break, but contributed to the silence, a cow moving in her
staU, the sharp bark of a fox or cry of an owl from the hanging
coverts above the river, and the murmur of the weir by the miU—
an almost imperceptible rumour of sound. Could he return at
such a time, old Thomas Damme would feel no stranger here.

PART THREE

Chapter XXVI
NANTWICH

Our stay at Church Minshull was so prolonged that when we
finally decided to cast off once more, autumn was already far
advanced. We had thought of voyaging up the Welsh canal to
Llangollen, but the outbreak of war and the prospect of winter’s
imminence brought about a change of plan, and we decided
instead to turn south along a different route, with Oxford our
ultimate objective.

Owing to the hi^ cost of petrol and the difficulty of obtaining
supplies, I had decided to adapt ‘Cressy’s’ engine to bum par affin^
and our departure was further delayed because the railway
company— characteristically— lost the case of vital parts. It
should have arrived at Crewe, but after a fortnight of vain tele-
phone conversations with helpless or apathetic clerks it was
eventually run to earth at Worleston, a sleepy country station
some miles in the opposite direction. We spent three days in
fitting the new parts, filling tanks with fuel and laying in copious
stores, before, on a Saturday at noon, we slipped our moorings,
looking our last on the village we had come to regard with the
familiarity of home.

The day was fine and sunny, but a cold westerly breeze was blow-
ing the leaves from the trees and ruffling the surface of the water into
wavelets which slapped and gur^ed round our bows. Grossing

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139

the exposed bank above the river, it was difficult to prevent
‘Cressy’ from being blown onto the mud, but we succeeded in
reaching the sheltered cutting under Old Hoolgrave bridge without
having to resort to our shafts. For, in common with the rest of
the Shropshire Union System, the apparent width of the Middle-
wich canal was very deceptive, the available draught of water
being very small, and any departure from the narrow central
channel scoured by passing boats landed the unwary firmly and
almost inextricably aground.

Because of the low banks and these shallow margins, the canal
was a favoured haunt of herons. Often when walking along the
towing path we had seen them, but could never approach them
closely. Invariably they would wheel away, keeping a distance of
from two to three hundred yards. Soon after we had passed
through MinshuU lock and crossed the Weaver by a lofty aqueduct
we sifted a heron, and were surprised to discover that when
approached by water he exhibited no sign of shyness. Instead he
remained motionless on the margin, his long neck craning over the
water until our bows were almost abreast of him, when, quicker
than thought, he struck, the long bill flashing down to emerge
with a writhing silver fish securely held. So close were we by this
time that we could see his neck ffistend as he swallowed his prey.
When he rose it was only to alight a hundred yards farther ahead
and repeat his tactics. Always he landed some little distance from
the water’s edge, approaching to peer over the brink with all the
infinite stealth and concentration of an ardent dry-fly fisherman
stalking his gut-shy quarry on a clear chalk stream. Sometimes he
drew blank and flew ahead without striking, -but when he struck
he never failed. This systematic fishing went on for some time, until
we neared the next lock at Cholmondeston, which was evidently
the boundary of his beat, for he winged away over the fields to
alight some distance astern. Though we had seen many herons
on our summer joum^, they had always given us a wide berth,
yet this was destined to be only the first of many similar encounters
on our return. We concluded that the reason for this must be that
the fish tend to lie on the bottom as winter approaches, and that the
passage of a boat creates a disturbance among them which the
heron finds very welcome.

Cholmondeston was a good example of the way in which local
place names can defeat the stranger by their unexpected pro-
mmciation. I had felt tolerably certain that it would be ab-

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140

breviated to ‘Cbumston’, until I was enlightened by an old canal
lengthman at Nantwich, who not only pronounced it phonetically,
but threw in yet another syllable, and stressed the last but one in
such a manner that the ponderous word assumed the forcefulness
of a rousing mediaeval oath. ‘I was bom Cholermondiejton way’
was what he said, and he should know.

Twenty minutes’ more running brought us in sight of ‘The
Jolly Tar’ at Barbridge, whose windows command the junction
of the Middlewich Branch with the old Chester Canal section of
the Shropshire Union ‘main line’. Here we turned southward to
moor for the night between an old warehouse spanning the water-
way from bank to bank and a wooden mission room on the water’s
edge. We wondered whether the latter was intended for canal
boatmen on the lines of a seamen’s mission, as its site suggested,
but when a service was held there next morning the canal folk
were conspicuous by their absence, although several boats passed
by.

There is a considerable traffic on this waterway, consisting
mainly of Thomas Clayton horse-boats working between Birming-
ham and Ellesmere Port, and an occasional ‘Josher’ or Cowburn
and Cowpar motor-boat trading from Wolverhampton to Widnes,
Runcorn or Manchester via the Middlewich Branch. The latter
once travelled via the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal
to the Trent and Mersey at Great Haywood, but owing to the delay
at Harecastle Tunnel and the heavy ‘Cheshire locks’, the Shrop-
shire route, five miles shorter and considerably easier, came to be
adopted.

At Hurleston the mouth of the Welsh Canal climbing westwards
towards the Marches was a sore temptation, but we passed it by,
and soon came in si^t of the fine sandstone tower of Acton
church, a prominent landmark on the summit of a gentle slope
overlooking Nantwich. An old local saying maintains that
‘Acton churchyard is higher than Nantwich steeple’. Whether this
be true or not matters little, but it is a recorded fact that Acton
was once the mother church of Nantwich, the first place of worship
at Wych Malbank, as it was then called, being a diminutive Norman
chapel-of-ease.

Until it became part of a through route by the construction of
Telford’s ‘Bipdngham and Liverpool Junction Canal’, the old
Chester Navigation terminated in a broad basin between Acton
and Nantwich which is still known locally as ‘Basin End’. Wide

NANTWICH

141

boats once traded regularly between Ellesmere Port and the basin,
but now it has fallen into disuse, the old warehouse having become
a store for Cheshire cheeses, a better fate than has befallen most

Acting upon the advice of a lengthman at Barbridge, we tried
to moor in this basin, but soon discovered that he had not taken
into account the bar of mud thrown across the entrance by the
wash of passing motor-boats. After we had made two abortive
attempts we gave it up, mooring outside and walking up the hill
to Acton village, where we took a lunch of bread and cheese at
‘The Sun’, a fine old timbered inn with a mounting-block on the
cobbles before the door. Because the interstices of the timber
framing had been filled with brickwork, it was not a perfect
specimen of regional building construction; nevertheless it was
an attractive example of the roadside ‘hedge-tavern’. The dark,
stone-flagged interior was rendered even darker by a typical
Victorian ‘stuffiness’ of wallpaper, aspidistras, lace curtains and
coloured lithographs, yet we felt that even this was preferable to
exploitation by the builders of Tudor roadhouses and ‘olde-
worlde’ tea-barns to whom it might have fallen an easy prey.

According to Leland there were four hundred salt workhigs in
Nantwich at the time of Henry VIII, but their numbers slowly
dwindled until, unlike the nei^bouring ‘wiches’, the trade vanished
altogether, its only traces being the brine baths and the way in
which the subsidence of old workings has caused many houses
to sink below street level Three times visited by plague, twice laid
waste by fire, besieged in the civil war, the old town now faces
a new and more insidious peril, the invasion of its upstart neigh-
bour Crewe, which is threatening to engulf it in a spate of ‘de-
sirable housing estates’. Though these have encroached perilously
near, Nantwich still contrives to preserve the atmosphere of an old
market town catering solely for the needs of an agricultural district.
The existence of Crewe and of the strangers at the gates is not yet
acknowledged, but how much longer will this happy immunity
survive? In view of the recent establishment of a vast new factory
at Crewe, it would seem aU too probable that it will soon be
swallowed up by its swollen neighbour of the cinemas, chain stores
and sordid streets. Meanwhile the shops of Nantwich reflect the
needs and standard of living of the countrymen for whom they
cater. This standard, unlike that of Crewe, is hi^ a fact which
refutes the common belief that it is industrialism which has
brought about improved living. The grocers, bakers and butchers

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142

of Nantwich made it abundantly clear to us that the countrymen
of Cheshire do not live out of tins and refuse to accept inferior
imported foods. To ask a Nantwich butcher for foreign meat
would constitute a personal insult, and during our stay in Cheshire
we had home-killed joints that in their tenderness and flavour
rivalled the famous roasts of Simpsons in the Strand. We delighted
also in sampling the local delicacies— chorley cakes, a currant-
filled pastry eaten hot with butter, pikelets, a species of crumpet,
great flat oatcakes fried with breakfast bacon, and last but by no
means least, prime Cheshire cheese.

This is the only vigorous survivor of that goodly company of
English cheeses which have been banished to oblivion, or at best
to extreme rarity, by a soap-like factory product wrapped iti tin-
foil or a characterless substance fit only to bait mouse-traps. The
fact that the cheese-room still takes its rightful place in the active
life of so many farms in the Vale Royal is the highest tribute to the
tenacity of the tradition of rural life in Cheshire. These are the
samecheese-rooms which, in the seventeenth century, were exempted
from the window tax, and the cheese-markets held weekly in
Nantwich, where the large barrel-shaped cheeses in their cloth
coverings are auctioned, are the direct lineal descendants of the
great cheese-fairs of a more prosperous past.

Originally composed entirely of timber-built houses, it is not
surprising that the town was thrice ravaged by fire. That of 1583
was so devastating that Queen Elizabeth came to the rescue of the
homeless inhabitants with a grant of timber from her royal forest
of Delamere. Her favour is perpetuated to this day by the inscrip-
tion over the gable of a house in the square which runs :

‘God grante our ryal Queen
In England long to raign.

For she hath put her helping hand
To hild this towne again.’

There are still many excellent examples of timber-work in
the town, particularly the old Crown Hotel, with its great gallery
window extending the whole length of the upper storey and, most
notable of all, the mansion of Richard Churche in Hospital
Street. Though very diflerent in style and of later date, the latter
shares with Grevel’s fourteenth-century house at Campden in
Gloucestershire the distinction of being one of the very few wealthy
merchant houses remaining in England, for the heavy hand of
progress has naturally dealt more hardly with the town house of

NANTWICH 143

the merchant venturer than with the secluded country manor of
squire or yeoman.

Churche’s mansion is as fine a fiowering of the regional style
as is the Grevel House of Cotswold Gothic. The timberwork
of the long, four-gabled front is most elaborately and finely
wrought in a design of linked Maltese crosses varied by a pattern
of alternately erect and inverted triple branches in the gable-heads.
Within we found a wealth of magnificent panellin g and carved
over-mantels, some of which still bear the marks of tallow dips
which have been ruthlessly stuck upon them in the past with singular
disregard for the danger of fiire. Althou^ we should otherwise
have been xmable to see the interior, we could not help regretting
that the house should have become a tea and antique shop.
Nevertheless we were inclined to a more charitable view when we
learnt that the present owners had not only saved the house from
the fate of being shipped piecemeal to America, like the Snowshill
Smithy, but with their own hands had restored the interior, strip-
ping as many as twenty layers of wallpaper from the panelling.
They had also brou^t the old rooms to life with many beautiful
and tastefully chosen things, for which, though they were for sale,
they displayed a genuine pride and affection. Notable among
these was a superb refectory table thirty feet long and bearing a
salt mark, which graced the great dining-room. They had refused
a good offer for this table on learning that the prospective purchaser
proposed cutting it in half. The rooms were lit entirely by candles,
and the picture we carried with us from Churche’s Mansion
was one of the friendly gloom of the panelled dming-hall starred
with their flickering gracious light shining out from the wall-
sconces and branch candelabra as the dusk fell.

As a permanent "dwelling-place I would prefer the stalwart
limestone walls of Grevel’s house, for walls of timber, lath and
plaster, no matter how truly built, can never afford the same degree
of warmth, while searching draughts whistle throu^ ill-fitting
casements whose frames inevitably distort with age. Nevertheless,
had I to live in Cheshire I would choose such a house, for I confess
I care little for the local sandstone. Of a blackened, sombre quality
unresponsive to light or shadow, it possesses neither the lightness
nor the durability of oolitic limestone, which, in its subtle range of
colouring, varjing from silver to deepest ochre, is the perfect
medium for the soaring grace of Popendicular Gothic. Because
it is built of this unsympathetic sandstone, which the weather

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defaces as effectively as any Puritan, I was little moved by the
fabric of Nantwich church, fine though it undoubtedly is. There
are some more than usually grotesque gargoyles carved with
characteristic vigour and humour, especially one representing a
devil of exceptional depravity bearing off a bibulous woman still
clinging to her quart pot. There is also a very fine stone pulpit,
whose panels and slender pedestal are richly carved in the Per-
pendicular style of double arcading to harmonise with the low
chancel screen from which it springs with the natural exuberance
of a flower. Nevertheless I saw nothing to change my view that
wood and not stone was the chosen medium of the mediaeval
craftsmen of Cheshire. For the glory of this church are the canopied
choir stalls of late fifteenth-century workmanship. There are
twenty of them, and their delicate openwork canopies, each em-
bracing three image niches, spire to the chancel roof in such a
wealth of slender shafts and arocketed pinnacles that it is as
thou^ a hundred springing fountain jets had petrified in oak.
But it was in the misericords beneath that the craftsman of the
Age of Faith had expressed most exuberantly his mediaeval fancy.
Their carving spoke with the voice of the singers in the inn at
Shardlow, a voice that has been stilled forever by that new spirit
of joyless sanctimony which was a product of commercialism.
So prodigal is the rich blend of humour, imagination and piety
that has found expression here that the mind shrinks from the
contrast of our own impoverishment. Here, wrought with infinite
toil and cunning, are knights and dragons, monks, nuns and
wrestlers, dolphins, mermaids, strange man-headed birds and
Reynard the fox set^g forth on a hunting foray, a leather bottle
slimg about his waist. These misericords are poetry in oak, for
wood and stone were to the mediaeval craftsman what words are
to the poet. When shall we see their like again?

Chapter XXVII
INTO SHROPSHIRE

We got up at dawn on the day of our departure from Nantwich,
to be rewarded by a sunrise of rare splendour. A long, violet-
coloured bar of cloud hung in the east, but between it and the
horizon there lay a strip of clear sky at first only a silver luminence
in a grey half-light, but slowly flushing from palest salmon-pink
to a brilliance that fired the fringes of the cloud above. Against
this magic backcloth the towers and roofs of the town, wreathed
in the smoke of morning fires, looked as blue, remote and unreal
as did Camelot to Gareth and his companions when they saw ‘the
silver misty mom rolling her smoke about the royal mount’. Now,
as then, the birds made melody, while a slowly approaching boat
travelled on such a path of reflected glory that it might well have
been bound for Avilion with the wounded King. When the sun
passed behind the bank of cloud, colour ebbed swiftly, prosaic
Nantwich reappeared, the water darkened and the boat passed by,
a Thomas Clayton with a cargo of oil for Ellesmere Port.

When we had breakfasted and laid in a further stock of pro-
visions from the town, we cast off, crossing the Chester road and
the Vale of Nantwich by a cast-iron aqueduct and a mile-long
embankment.

Constraction of the Birmingham and Liverpool Junction Canal
was not commenced until 1826 , and so far as I know it wm the
last important waterway, excluding ship canals, to be built in this
K . 145

NARROW BOAT

146

coxmtry. Its inception was entirely due to the success of George
Stevenson’s Liverpool and Manchester Railway, for the canal pro-
prietors, alarmed by the threat of their new competitor, desired a
quicker and easier route between the two great industrial areas.
For this reason it is unequalled by any other waterway in the
naagnitude of its earthworks and the directness of its course.
Across the level pastures from Nantwich, through Hack Green, to
Audlem it cuts as straight as a Roman road, and for the first and
only time on our travels we found ourselves wishing that ‘Cressy’
was capable of a little more speed. The older winding waterways
fully gratified that chief joy of travel, the expectation of what may
lie round tbe next comer, but here, when our attention became
focussed on a bridge perhaps a mile distant, this element was
entirely lacking and our progress seemed intolerably slow. By
ni^tfall we reached the end of this monotonous stretch, crossing
the Weaver by Hankelow MiU, and mooring below the Audlem
fli^t of fifteen locks by which the canal leaves the plain.

Having worked over a hundred and fifty locks by this time,
lockage had become a matter of easy routine, and we made short
work of the Audlem flight next morning, although they were all
against us. Angela went ahead on her bicycle to set them, closing
the top gates and drawing the bottom paddles, so that when they
were empty ‘Cressy’ could push the lower gates open for herself.
When I had filled the locks she could open the top gates also, an
advantage when working a boat with so small a crew which cannot
be enjoyed when locking downhill, as the gates then open against
the direction of travel.

Half-way up the locks we paused at Audlem, a sleepy group of
old houses, inns and shops clustering about a church perched upon
a mound ; an agricultural town so small that it nai^t equally well
be described as a large village. We found the much-restored in-
terior of the church disappointing, bou^t some Chorley cakes
and home-made treacle toffee at the baker’s shop, and continued
on our way.

At the summit of the flight we crossed the border of Shropshire,
and found the rolling wooded country between this point and the
nrart five locks at Adderley a welcome change after the monotony
of the Cheshire levels. By this time the westerly breeze had fresh-
ened considerably and a wrack of swift; chasmg clouds was sweep-
ing like smoke out of Wales. We had climbed to the last of the
five locks when a cold rain began to fall, so we lost no time in

INTO SHROPSHIRE

147

tying up, and were soon settling down to tea in the welcome
warmth of the sitting-cabin, eating hot buttered chorley cakes in
the flickering firelight while the rain beat against the windows and
■pattered on the deck above.

We were discovering that canal cruising aboard ‘Cressy’ did not
depend for its fascination upon summer weather. Bare branches
dark against a winter sky, and a fli^t of rooks beating home-
ward, wind-tossed like charred scraps of paper; the rich bloom of
new ploughland, great honey-coloured ricks new thatched, and
the stillness of sky-reflecting pools — ^such pictures can convey but
little of rewards as great as any that summer had brought us. It
was a new and unfailing delight, after standing for hours at the
tiller in the keen air rich with the scents of late autumn, to moor
in some lonely place, close the hatches and retreat to the sitting-
cabin, an island of warmth and comfort in the gathering dark
where familiar objects, the many-coloured bindin g s of beloved
books, the gleaming copper kettle and outspread tea-things, awoke
to new and gracious life in the lamplight. To lie in bed of a night •
or in the drowsy warmth of a hot bath and listen to the wind
rushing overhead was to be reminded of Frances Comford’s poem
‘The Country Bedroom’ :

‘My room’s a square and candle-lifted boat,

In the surrounding depths of night afloat.

My windows are uie portholes, and the seas
The sound of rain in the dark apple-trees.’

When curtains were drawn it was often hard to believe that our
room really was ‘a square and candle-lighted boat’, whose windows
looked out each night upon a strange darkness.

We had almost decided to remain overnight at Adderley when
a boat passed by. After the usual exchange of greetings, ‘Why
don’t you go on to Drayton Wharf?’ her captain suggested. ‘It’s
only toee miles, and it’s market day tomorrow.’ Thouf the wind
was stiU blowing, the rain had ceased and there were patches of
clear evening sky between the flying clouds, so we took his advice
and moved on throuf the stormy half-lift over Betton Moss.

The name of Betton seemed vaguely familiar, but it was not
until we reached Betton Wood, where the trees, pressing close,
made a darkness about us and the water was unruflEled by the wind
which tossed their branches, that I recalled the association in the
line : ‘Than that which walks in Betton Wood knows why it walks
or why it cries’. Connoisseurs of the ghost story will doubtless

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NARROW BOAT

have read ‘A Neighbour’s Landmark’ by the immortal M. R.
James, and so remember Betton Wood, where walked the shrieking
^ost having ‘no language but a cry’. It mattered little to me that
the wood in the story was grubbed up owing to its evil reputation,
whereas this one was very much alive, for any winter wood on a
windy dusk is a haunted place.

When we came into the open again it was to catch the full force
of the wind on our long cabin side, and our last mile that night
was fraught with difficulty. However, by opening up the engine
and driving along arabwise with the bow held well into the wind,
we had only one encounter with the mud. Even so it was almost
pitch dark by the time we drew alongside Victoria Wharf at Market
Drayton, nor could we have gone farther had we wished to, for
the wind rose rapidly to gale force, and all night long, great gusts
and driving squalls rocked the boat.

Chapter XXVIII
•DIRTY FAIR’

After our experience of ‘Market’ Harborou^ we were prepared
to be disillusioned when we walked into the town the next morn-
ing. Instead we found ourselves in one of the best open markets
we had seen. Market Drayton still lives up to its name, for not
only was the square and the long street leading from it thronged
with stalls, but countrywomen stood on the kerb-sides with great
baskets of eggs, trussed poultry and vegetables which were a joy
to behold.

The day, though fine, was very cold, and at noon the old inns
round the square were crowded. In the stand-up bars there was
much noisy bargaining and talk of feeding-stitfs or fat stock,
while in the snug parlours plump farmers’ wives exchanged the
gossip of the week, topping up thdr glasses of rum from a steam-
ing kettle on the hearth. From them we learnt that we had been
lucky enough to arrive in time for Market Drayton’s annual Horse
Fair, commonly called ‘Dirty Fair’, because the weather on that
day is proverbially wet. Determined not to miss such an event,
we therefore delayed our departure.

The weather on fair day certainly lived up to tradition, but
because it was obviously accepted as a time-honoured matter of
course, everyone had come prepared for the worst, and the pour-
ing rain made not a jot of difference. The open pens zuid covered

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150

sheds of the big cattle market were packed with horse-flesh of
every shape, size and condition, from ponies and flufiy foals to
lumbering cart-horses, while the men who moved among them,
critically examining teeth or passing a knowledgeable hand over
hocks or shoulders, were of even greater interest Cloth-gaitered,
bowler-hatted yeoman farmers whose faces were suSused by the
cold rain to a fine mesh of ruddy veins, rubbed shoulders with
dark, pale-skinned men from the Welsh mountains, whose soft,
lilting speech minted with the broader tones of the Shropshire
dialect There were many gipsies also, in their strange vivid
clothes, the men wearing bright neckerchiefs, and their swarthy
women-folk carrying babies wrapped with them in their heavy,
check-patterned shawls. No doubt many of them came from
Whixall Moss on the Marches near Whitchurch, a desolate tract
of heath and bogland which has always been a favourite haunt of
the people of Little Egypt The farm labourers and carters were
there too, clumping to and fro in their heavy, clay-caked boots
with slow, tireless gait their legs protected from the wet by im-
provised puttees made from coils of sacking tied with binder
twine.

One old, white-bearded countryman in his best suit of sombre
broadcloth was actually wearing an ancient tall hat a form of
headgear I had thou^t as extinct as the fine, quilted smocks of
shepherd or waggoner, and which I may never see again.

But it was in the muddy field adjoining that most of the fun of
the fair was taking place, for here there were great droves of un-
broken colts and wild-eyed Welsh ponies straight from Clun
Forest or the Berwyns. The scene was one of incessant movement
and commotion, for one or other of the steaming, closely packed
herds was forever stampeding, sending the crowd scattering for
safety like a receding wave, wMe drovers brandishing long whips
ran shou^g and gesticulating hither and thither, trying to sort
out their respective charges from a plimging, kicking and snorting
mSlie.

We caught sight of a hard-bitten representative of the local
county, threading her way through the motley throng, obviously
in search of a mount for the small daughter who trailed in her
wake. The Wdshman in charge of one of the groups of ponies
saw her also, and claimed her swiftly before his rivals could get a
look in. Tlurusting his face within a few inches of her ear, to her
manifest discomfiture, he proceeded to beguile her with I know

‘dirty fair’

151

not what plausible confidences, while his assistant seized a halter
and plunged among the ponies to emerge miraculously triumphant
from a short chaotic struggle with his reluctant choice, shouting:
‘Here you are, lady! Real Llangammarch Welsh.’ Then, while the
dealers sang its praises in glowing terms, curious onlookers formed
an impromptu show ring and the pony was put through its paces,
shaking its head wickedly, rearing and feinting so that the small
boy who clung for dear life to the halter floundered like a fish upon
a ^e. Although in this particular instance there was no sale, we
saw a deal of hard bargaining concluded by the ceremonial slap-
ping of palms, and watched the most unlikely and disreputable of
customers pay out as much as ten or fifteen pounds in notes before
celebrating the closing of the deal in the adjoining inn, whose
takings on this occasion must be astronomical.

The horse-dealer is proverbially a plausible rogue, but withal
he is a picturesque, characterful figure, and one which his modem
coimterpart, the down-at-heel second-hand car dealer, in a grease-
spotted lounge suit, can never replace. Therefore, as we walked
back through the rain to the canal we counted ourselves fortunate
indeed to have shared in a scene which rightly belonged to the
older England of ‘Lavengro’ and ‘Romany Rye’. When the motor-
car has finally routed the last of these old country festivals, when
the last gipsy caravan has gone from flie camping-place and the
Welshmen no longer drive their ponies across the border, we shall
still remember ‘Dirty Fair’.

Chapter XXIX
CHESWARDINE WHARF

Having conveniently, replenished our coal-bunkers at Victoria
Wharf, we left Market Drayton at noon on a perfect day, crossing
the valley of the Tern on a lofty embankment fringed with pine
trees, between whose boles we caught glimpses of the wooded
slopes and sunlit levels through which the little river wound. On
regaining the hi^ ground on the farther side, we almost imme-
diately entered a cutting through bare sandstone so narrow and
so arched and overgrown by trees and hazel bushes that it more
nearly resembled a flooded Devon lane than a canal. This brought
us to the Tyrley flight of fi.ve locks, the last for many miles to
come, and when we had reached the summit we moored for tea
beside a scented pinewood. The evening air was so mild that we
sat on the foredeck, enjoying the last of the lowering sunli^t.
This was our last open-air meal of the year.

Determined to make the most of this fine, still weather, we
travelled on afterwards, and soon entered a second cutting of far
greater magnitude than that below the locks. Over a mile long,
and from fifty to sixty feet deep, it carved a way through the same
central ridge which the Trent and Mersey Canal pierces at Hare-
castle. Though doubtless less costly to construct than a tunnel, it
was obvious, from the way in which the crumbling rock had in
many places slipped down the almost precipitous sides onto the
towing path or into the water, that it was a constant source of
trouble and expense to the canal maintenance department. To
journey throng it as we did in the subdued half-light of dusk
brought a strange sense of remoteness and unreality. The narrow
ribbon of still wato ahead and our slowly gliding boat seemed
more than ever to be the stuff of dreams shut away from the
world of men, an illusion before closed eyes from which we must
soon awake. The trees which interlaced Iheir branches high over-
head to cover the water with perpetual shadow leant crazily one
upon the other from their crumbling root-holds on the slopes. Like
a tropical jungle, their branches trailed heavy curtains of creepers,

152

CHESWARDINE WHARF

153

dark ground ivy and silvery Old Man’s Beard. Even the familiar
canal bridges had here assumed strange and fanciful proportions,
their arches airily heightened in their leap from lip to lip of die
gorge.

When we eventually emerged into the open once more it was
almost dark, but by the light of a faint emerald afterglow we
could just distinguish a slope of common-land clothed with russet
bracken, and the trunks of birches, a faint silver luminence, grow-
ing down to the water’s edge. It was an ideal mooring place, but
alas the margins were so shallow that we could not bring ‘Cressy’
near enough to the bank to be clear of passing boats. Moving
slowly ahead in quest of deeper water, we presently saw through
the ^oom a wharf with a boat moored beside it, but on closer
approach found the warehouse in ruins and the boat a rotting
hulk lying gunwale awash. The basin, moreover, was so filled with
mud that it would scarcely have floated a punt, as a sounding
with one of our shafts proved. It was then that we noticed that the
solitary cottage beside the wharf bore a sign : ‘The Wharf Inn’, it
read, ‘By H. Carpenter’. Ass uming that it had not shared the fate
of the warehouse, this was the most secluded canal inn we had yet
encountered, and we became more than ever determined to moor
up somehow, mud or no mud. Feeling certain that where there
was an inn there must be a mooring place, we allowed ‘Cressy’ to
drift slowly on through the bridge hole wMch cut off farther view
ahead, and there found a Thomas Clayton horse-boat already tied
up, her cabin fire smoking bravely in ^e clear night air. When we
had moored and made all secure for the night, I looked up our
position on the map. We were at Goldstone Common, one mile
to the west of the village of Cheswardine, in the densely wooded,
broken country on the Shropshire-Staffordshire border.

After dinner we walked out into a night starlit but moonless to
make the acquaintance of ‘The Wharf Inn’. We found a cheerful
fire blazing in the little bar parlour, where sat the landlord, his
wife and the captain of the horse-boat with a pint glass on the
table before him. To come from the darkness of a strange coun-
tryside into the warmth and cheer of a simple, friendly house such
as this, to take one’s place on a rough bench before the fire and be
carried easily into the smooth, unhurried flow of country talk as
soothing as the murmur of bees, while the firelight glows in the
brimming glass, this is to appreciate the true worth of the English
inn. As no motorist dashing from one road-house to another in

NARROW BOAT

154

the close confinement of his saloon car can ever do, I foimd it
easy to recapture the feelings of the hard-riding travellers of the
past, and there came into my mind the words on the old sign of
‘The Plough’ at Ford on Cotswold, which so perfectly express
that older and richer hospitality ;

‘Ye weary travelers that pass by.

With dust and scorching sunbeams dry,

Or be benumb’d with snow and frost,

With having these bleak cotswolds crosst.

Step in and quaff my nut-brown ale
Bri^t as rubys mild and stale.

’Twill make your laging trotters dance
As nimble as the suns of france.

Then ye will own, ye men of sense,

That neare was better spent six pence.’

This was the boatman’s second stage on his eighty-mile journey
between Oldbury and Ellesmere Port, which he covered in three
and a half days, a daily mileage which put us to shame and meant
travelling from before dawn until well after dark. The previous
night he had spent near Wheaton Aston, the next would find him
at Beeston or Chester, and on the mid-day following he would
arrive at his destination. Since his liquid cargo took little time to
discharge, he made the round trip in a week. He had but lately
lost his wife, and now worked his boat with the help of his three
small children, the eldest a girl of ten. There had been foxir, until
one was drowned in Tyrley top lock. How they lived and what
they ate will forever be a mystery, yet the captain appeared remark-
ably cheerful and philosophical, despite his bereavement. When
he had gone, the landlord, who knew all the passing boatmen
intimately, aflSrmed with a shake of his head that he was ‘taking
more beer than he used’. One can hardly blame him.

We went on to discuss the illiteracy of the canal folk, which our
host considered a scandal ‘in these times’, citing the fact that most
of them were unable even to read the time by his clock. He may
be right, but my answer was that education has so far done little
for the unemployed townsman except to make his tragic existence
more intolerable. I certainly consider that the simple, forthright
mother wit of the illiterate boatman is preferable to a ‘culture’
bom of the cinema and Sunday newspaper, and though I could
not lose the company of books, I have often envied him his happy
immunity from the howling bedlam of the hoarding and the
popular Press.

While we were talking the door opened and there entered a very

CHESWARDINE WHARF

155

old man whose lean, wizened face was framed in white side-
whiskers. Sharp-eyed, but leaning heavily upon his stick, he bade
the company good evening and made straight for the seat in the
chimney comer which was evidently his by right of long custom,
for the landlord immediately vacated it, unbidden and unacknow-
ledged. This newcomer, it transpired, was a bachelor, and all the
eighty-five years of his life he had spent on the same farm ‘up
Cheswardine way’. He had never seen the sea, nor travelled in a
train, his boldest exploit being a rare excursion to Market Drayton,
a venture he had not imdertaken of recent years. His elder
brother, it seemed, had been of a less conservative temperament,
being fond of a ride in a ‘moty-car’ until his death a while back,
■when the cottage in which they had lived together had been sold
up. Now this surviving veteran lived alone in a caravan which he
had ‘bought off a diddicoy Whitchurch way’. Every spring he
repainted his home inside and out, and when he had a mind to it
he would still give a helping hand on the farm. His hobby was
collecting birds, and the caravan, we were told, was hung about
with many cages, though no one knew, for he would never tell,
how he contrived to catch them.

When we left the inn we thought we had been privileged to meet
tile oldest inhabitant of the district, but it subsequently transpired
that we were wrong. We were talking to the canal lengthman the
next morning, a burly countryman in the sixties, with a heavy
white moustache and round, weatherbeaten face, and had been
deploring the decline in the painting of the boats.

“That’s just what my dad’s always saying,’ he agreed. ‘I can
remember as a boy his boat used to look a treat; you never see
the like along here now— all done up with flowers and that.’ The
way in which he referred to his father in the present tense prompted
us to ask whether he was still alive. ‘Bless you yes!’ he exclaimed.
‘Why, he went to Drayton only last week to have a tooth took
out.’

‘My Dad’, we discovered, was over ninety, stiH active and clear
in mind. He had only one idiosyncrasy, which was evidently a
source of worry to his son. A great walker all his life, his feet were
now troubling him, but he refused to admit the infirmity, shifting
the blame on to his boots. ‘They can’t make boots tike they used’,
he would maintain stoutly, and given the opportunity would
throw them on the fire. Woe betide his son if he' should let him
see a new pair, for; ‘That’s a nice pair o’ boots you got there.

NARROW BOAT

156

Jim’, the veteran would say, eyeing them jealously, and would
give him no peace until he had tried them, only to consign them
to the same fate in a day or two if he was not carefully watched.
Nevertheless it seemed Aat his feet still managed to carry him as
far as ‘The Wharf Inn’ occasionally.

Such grand old countrymen as these are the living successors of
Thomas Parr of Glyn and Damme of Leighton. There may be
some particular quality in this rolling countryside of Shropshire
which is conducive to long life, but surely the true elixir is the
tranquil measure of their days, a natural rhythm of labour and of
rest as unhurried yet deliberate as the burgeoning of spring.

Gun-LomsiE Gato, Old Shrewsbtoy Canal

Chapter XXX

NORBURY, NEWPORT AND ‘CUT END’

Owing to unfavourable weather, we remained moored for a day
at Cheswardine, but the next morning broke fine, and we then
made short work of the seven-and-a-half-mile level to Norbury
Junction, which we reached soon after noon, in ample time to
visit the nearby town of Newport for supplies. We passed through
an undulating, sparsely populated countryside, densely wooded
cuttings alternating with high embankments — or ‘valleys’, as the
boatmen call them — ^which afforded us wide views across the plain
to westward. Shebdon was the only village we passed, but there
were several canal-side inns, a feature with which the Shropshire
Union main line seems imcommonly well supplied.

.Norbury is the junction of the Newport and Old Shrewsbury
Canal Branch, a waterway that is on our list for future explora-
tion, not only because it passes through the heart of a lovely rural
district in the Vale of Shrewsbury, but because it is in many ways
unique. It is twenty-five miles long, falling to Newport by a flight
of eighteen locks, and then proceeding by Wappenshall Junction,
throu^ Berwick Tunnel to Shrewsbury Basin. At Wappenshall
the disused Shropshire Tub Boat Canal commenced. These tub
boats measured about twenty feet in length by six feet two inches

157 '

NARROW BOAT

158

beam, and carried five tons- They were horse-drawn in trains of
as many as twenty at a time, , the boatman in charge steering by
the rudimentary method of keeping the leading boat in the centre
of the channel by means of a long shaft from the towing-path. At
Trench, two miles from Wappenshall, they were hauled up one of
the earliest inclined plane lifts in the country. It was two hundred
and twenty-seven yards long, with a vertical rise of seventy-three
feet, the ascending and descending trolleys drawn by wire cables,
each carrying one tub.

According to the dimensions given by Bradshaw’s guide, the
nine hrmdred and seventy-yard tunnel at Berwick must be the
most restricted of any in England, being only seven feet in width
by six feet high. It must also have been the scene of even fiercer
disputes than those which took place in the early days at Hare-
castle, for Mr. de Salis adds the following note :

‘There are no fixed hours for boats to pass through the tunnel.
There is a white mark in the middle of the tunnel, and should two
boats meet, die one who has reached the middle of the tunnel first
has the right of way.”

The two locks at Eyton, a mile or so west of Wappenshall, are
also unique. They have lower gates of the very rare ‘Guillotine’
type, which open vertically, and the chambers, though only six feet
four inches wide, were made over eighty feet long, to pass four
tub boats at a time, ff these dimensions hold good today, ‘Cressy’,
with her beam of seven feet, would not pass through, and further-
more we heard reports that the canal beyond Newport was in
a derelict state. On the other hand, a travelling maintenance
engineer whom we met at Basin End told us he had taken his boat
throu^ Berwick Tunnel earlier in the year. We resolved one day
to setde the truth of these conflicting reports.

At Norbury, as at Fradley, the village proper was some little
distance away from the canal, and a second community had
grown up, grouped around the wide basin where a roving bridge
carried the towing-path of the main canal over the mouth of the
branch. These included ‘The Junction Inn’, several cottages, and
the extensive workshops and yards which form the southern head-
quarters of the canal company. Here were stored all the materials
necessa^ for canal repairs— piles of bricks, clay puddle and
gravel, ironwork and spare beams for the locks. Here, too, the
captaim of maintenance boats rq)orted for orders.

The surrounding country looked prosperous enou^, and we

159

NORBURY, NEWPORT AND ‘CUT END’

expected to find Newport as flourishing a market town a^" Market
Drayton. At first sight its wide main street of tall and gracious
Queen Anne or Georgian houses certainly seemed to confirm this
expectation, but on closer acquaintance they revealed an air of
sli^tly faded decadence, like that of an out-at-elbows aristocrat,
a melancholy such as pervades the Regency crescents and terraces
of Bath. The shop windows looked shoddy and fly-blown, and
even the inhabitants seemed to share in the general lassitude.
Many healthy country towns may be described as sleepy when
their quiet streets drowse in the sun of a summer afternoon, but
at Newport this sleep seemed near to death. I know not what the
reason for this may be, but I suspect that the younger generation
have migrated to the industrial districts of Wolverhampton, Staf-
ford or the Potteries, leaving Newport to the old and their
memories.

No matter where you may be in this part of Shropshire, the
Wrekin dominates the landscape, for it is to die yeomen of the
Shropshire plain what Beeston is to the Cheshire men: a land-
mark, a beacon, and barometer. One day a dim cloud on the
horizon as blue and remote as tiie skies, the next a stark outUne
of crystal clarity, at other times capped with cloud or altogether
veiled by mist and rain, this solitary mountain is the farmer’s
unfailing weather prophet. Like all outliers, it has a trick of
changing its shape in the most bewildering fashion as one moves
about the plain. To some districts it presents a long and irregular
whale-back of woods, but crossing the lofty ‘valley’ beyond Nor-
bury the next morning we sifted it for the first time as it should
be seen : a precipitous, perfectly conical shape as forbidding as a
solitary volcano. It was indistinct, being covered by a drab grey
veil which boded rain later, a forecast that was subsequently
fulfilled.

Spending the greater part of our days in the open, we discovered
that we were beginning to acquire something of the countryman’s
sense of the weather, which springs from the almost subconscious
observance of subtle changes in the quality of the atmosphere, of
cloud formation and movement, and of veering winds. Such a gift
is only within the reach of those who lead an open-air life, so
that it is yet another heritage df the past which the townsman has
lost.

Passing through the village of Gnosall (pronounced Nawzall by
the boatmen), we entered another of the chasm-like cuttings which

NARROW BOAT

160

are the dommant feature of this canal. In places the rock sides fell
sheer to the water’s edge, the streamers of ground ivy a living arras
upon them. Here, too, was the short Cowley Tunnel, the only one
on the canal.

At Wheaton Aston we came to the solitary lock in an otherwise
unbroken level of twenty-five miles, while around Brewood and
Deans Hall there were extensive parks of fine timber and dense
coverts which orowded close to the water. Notices forbade landing
and threatened trespassing boatmen with dire penalties, for the
plump, reared pheasants, as tame as chickens, that strutted un-
concernedly on the banks were easy and tempting game.

Considering their unrivalled opportunities, it is small wonder
that many boat captains are accomplished poachers, and I do not
blame them. I know of more than one who habitually carries a
gun in his cabin, and nearly all boat-dogs are accomplished
hunters and retrievers. Since most horse boatmen carry long
whips, which they crack resoundin^y as they stand at the tiller if
the horse should lag, it is easy enough to cover the report of a
small gun such as a four-ten. Fishing with rod and line is usually
permissible, provided the boatman remains on his boat, but since
few have sufficient leisure to indulge in this pastime, they resort
to the less legal methods of the spinner or the night-line.

The only fishermen we met on the Shropshire Canal were herons
and kingfishers, especially the latter. Every copse and spinny that
we passed seemed to harbour at least one of these vivid birds. The
brilliant iridescent blue of their plumage against the russet back-
ground of late autumn made a contrast so tropically extravagant
that the sight provoked a shock of surprise such as one would feel
were some exotic orchid or hibiscus to appear growing by the
margin. Like the herons, the kingfishers sometimes fished the
water ahead of us, but adopted different tactics, darting low over
the surface in mid-stream and falling with a splash upon their
prey, like a swallow dipping for a floating fly. One morning early
we heard an unfamiliar high-pitched chattering, more like the
squeaking of rats than the sound of a bird, and, looking out, saw
a pair of them perched upon our bow mooring-line.

As the afternoon wore on the country aroxmd us began to
assume the desolate, blackened look we had now come to know
so wdL Sure enou^ the tall chimney-stacks on the outskirts of
Wolverhampton came in sight as we drew clear of the woods of
Chillington Park, and the remaining three miles of the ‘Shroppie’

NORBURY, NEWPORT AND ‘CUT END* 161

to Autherley led us into a veritable no-man’s-land. The water
became black with pollution, there was a desolate swanap upon
either hand and, as if this were not enou^, it began to rain heavily
from a leaden sky.

At Autherley stop lock — or- ‘Cut End’, as the boatmen call it —
the Shropshire Canal terminates in a junction with the Stafford-
shire and Worcestershire, usually more briefly referred to as the
‘Stour Ciit’. When I walked into the toll oflSce beside the lock
to pay my dues, my spirits, somewhat damped by the weather,
were revived no littie by the toll clerk’s greeting. Though I had
never set eyes on him in my life, he jumped from his stool with a
hearty ‘How are you?’, clapping me on the shoulder and wringing
me by the hand as though’! were his prodigal son or had just made
a solo crossing of the Atlantic.

When we had obtained the necessary passes we lost no time in
mooring up just beyond the mouth of the junction, and were glad
to draw curtains and light lamps, shutting out our wet and dreary
surroundings. On referring to Bradshaw later that evening, I con-
firmed the fact that we had made our longest day’s run, of fifteen
and a half miles.

L

Chapter XXXI
THE STOUR cur

Our shortest route southward to Oxford from Wolverhampton
would have been to have joined the Birmingham Canal, main line,
at Aldersley Junction, half a mile south of Autherley. This would
have brought us to the northern terminus of the Grand Union at
Digbeth, and so via Warwick to the Oxford Canal at Napton, Not
only would this have involved traversing the entire length of the
Black Country, however, but the lockage would have been ex-
tremely heavy, there being no less than eighty-four in all between
Aldersley and Napton. Yet another alternative was to take the
Hatherton branch of the Stafford and Worcester, and so by way
of the Wyrley and Essington Canal to join the Coventry Canal
at Huddlesford Junction near Lichfield. In this case again the
lockage over Cannock Chase would be heavy and the region
dolorous, so we decided to skirt the fringe of the whole industrial
region by turning northwards once more to Great Haywood, and
from thence to retrace our tracks as far as Fradley. Though the
mileage was greater, the lockage was reduced by half, and the
way promised to be of greater interest.

Though it was blowing half a gale the next morning, we decided
to strug^e on at aU costs rather than spend the day in such dismal
surroundings. The wind was coming off the tow-path dead on our
beam, so Angela walked ahead with a bow-line to keep ‘Cressy’
from being blown onto the mud until we gained the welcome lee

162

‘the STOUR CUT'

163

of a cutting so narrow that passing places had been cut into the
banks at intervals. Thereafter we travelled better than we had
expected, thanks mainly to the shelter afforded by high hedges
and to the fact that the canal was much deeper than the muddy
waterways of Shropshire. It was a welcome change to be back
once more on an old canal with its tantalisiag twists and turns. A
unique feature were the old brick bridges, which were not merely
numbered, but bore, on weathered cast-iron plaques, such in-
triguing names as Mops Farm, Moat House, Long Moll’s and
Hazlestrine.

We were congratulating ourselves on having successfully shaken
off the purlieus of Wolverhampton, having passed the junction of
the Hatherton branch five miles from Autherley, when, at an acute
turn, a violent gust caught us fairly broadside to sweep us imcon-
troHably on to the bank, where we landed, not upon mud, but on
a rocky bottom with a most alarming series of bumps. It took us
an hour of bitter struggling with both bow and stem lines ashore
to haul ‘Cressy’ into the shelter of a bridge-hole a himdred yards
ahead. We then tried again, but at Calf Heath Bridge, half a mile
beyond, despite all our efforts, the wind, now risen to a gale force,
beat us again. It drove us onto the tow-path side, where we
should have fouled the navigation, and so great was its force on
our cabin side that it was aU we could do to shaft across and
moor securely on the opposite bank. This we eventually managed,
using double lines fore and aft, those aft round the trunk of a
convenient thorn bush, the forrard ones to both our mooring
spikes. Even so these were nearly tom out of the ground during
the night. It had been an unusually hard day, but this only made
it more enjoyable to settle down for a comfortable evening by
the fireside while the wind boomed impotently outside.

The gale spent itself before dawn, and we awoke to see sunlight
patter ning our cabin roof with li^t. The previous day having
been a Sunday, we had met no traffic, but now we heard the sound
of hooves and creak of tackle from the tow-path. We looked out,
to see the first ‘Day Boats’ we had so far encountered.

These craft, sometimes called ‘Open Boats’, are used for short-
distance traffic, the boatmen who work them plying continuously
to and fro, spending no time at the wharves in loading or unload-
ing, but picking up a different boat They carry no sleeping accom-
modation, being either (Juite open or having a diminutive cabin to
provide shelter for meals in inclement weather. These particular

NARROW BOAT

164

examples were working between the Wolverhampton area and the
Cannock Colliery wharves at Rodbaston near Gailey. Although
most of them were extremely dirty, and carried little or no paint-
work, their construction was interesting, for, unlike the long-
distance narrow boats, they were built with completely square
bilges, a taller towing mast and a very primitive type of cut-water
bow. They resembled minutely the boats appearing in Percival
Skelton’s illustrations to the early editions of Smiles’ ‘Lives of the
Engineers’, and therefore may well be survivals of the canal boat
in its original form.

In view of the perfect morning, we lost no time in getting under
way, and were soon taking our turn to lock down through the busy
locks at Gailey. A hundred yards or so beyond the tail of Rod-
baston Lock we passed the coal wharf where the Day Boats were
loading, and entered upon one of the most interesting stages of
the whole journey.

One Day Boat still makes a weekly journey with coal to the
Stafford Salt Works, but otherwise this northern section of the
canal to its terminus at Great Haywood is virtually disused, except
on rare occasions when through traffic is diverted owing to a stop-
page on the Shropshire Union route. The towing-path, up till now
a wide, miry track, suddenly became a field path, narrow and over-
grown, while the canal itself underwent a similar transformation,
resembling the reedy channel of the Leicester canal. The sides of
the locks were matted with weeds and coarse grasses, the paddle-
gears on their gates dry and rusty from little use. Willows long
rmpoUed stretched their branches so far and low over the water
that Angela’s bicycle was swept from the deck to hang precariously
by one pedal from the cant rail. It was just after we had retrieved
this misfortune that we sighted ‘The Cross Keys’, a little lost canal
inn standing amid the fields beside the tow-path. Its windows
seemed to be gazing over the water with pathetic expectancy for
boats which never came, so that we had not the heart to pass it
by. Sifting on a bench in the sim before the door, we talked with
the landlord while we drank a glass of his mild. Trade had been
brisk, he recalled wistfully, until the traffic had passed to the
Shropshire Canal, and he remembered tiie time when never a ni^t
passed by but several boatmen would moor by the door and lead
their horses to his stable. ‘A jolly lot they were,’ he said, ‘and rare
times we had when they got in here of an evening a-singing and
playing.’ Now he had made the best of new manners and changmg
fortunes by letting out his field to campers from the Black Coimtry

‘the STOUR CUT’ 165

during the summer months, but in the winter, he confessed with
a shake' of his head, he ‘kept very quiet’.

Half a mile from ‘The Cross Keys’, through Filance Lock, we
came to the village of Penkridge, where we paused again, this time
to lay in stores at the village shop. What we saw of the place from
the canal was pleasant enough, but the road traveller sees a very
different picture. For -it has the misfortune to lie on the main road
from W olverhampton to the Potteries and Manchester. The narrow
main street was no match for the great Leylands and Scammels
which shook the old houses to their foundations, so progress has
blasted a bleak three-track motor road through the heart of Penk-
ridge, and yet another En^h village has been laid waste to save
minutes.

"When we were ready to cast off again the sun had gone in, and
we travelled on through one of those grey and windless afternoons
peculiar to the Indian summer of late autumn, when the richly
scented air is still mild and so calm that the eye can detect no
movement of faded leaf or reed blade, while even the birds are
still and silent. On such a day all Natime, save only restless man,
seems to pause from the endless labour of the seasons, as though
to gather strength to face the winter.

Thou^ it would have been a lovely journey at any season, the
coimtry through which we passed appeared at its best advantage
in this calm, simless weather. Our comrse lay between the marshes
of the little river Penk and the dark woods of Teddesley Park,
which swept down from the slopes of Cannock on our right.
Nowhere, either upon the long levels of the marsh or in the dense
coverts which pressed close to the water’s edge, was there sign or
movement of any living thing, so that ‘Cressy’, slowly ^ding over
the mirror-like surface of the water, seemed an intruder in some
forbidden sanctuary, and the road she travelled some forgotten
river backwater instead of a man-made canal.

We returned to the workaday world when we cleared the shel-
tering trees of the park, for at the hamlet of Acton Trussell a
woman in a bright printed apron was feeding her chickens, and a
cowman was calling his herd to the evening milking with a ‘Come
hup!’ and a melodious ‘Hi ho!’

This day’s journey came to an end when we moored by the
bridge called Roseford under Acton Hill, the sky clearing towards
sunset and the night starlit.

The next day proved a contrast, for never before had we seen so
many birds as haunted the marshlands between Deptmore Lock

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166

and Haywood. Not only were there our old friends kingfisher,
heron, swan, coot and moorhen, but snipe darting away in swift,
flickermg flight, and wild duck breakmg suddenly from the reeds
by the margin with a startled whirr of wings. We had not gone
far before we were joined by an escort of swans, which swam
steadily before us for over two miles. If I speeded up ‘Cressy’ they
immediately responded by paddling more fiuriously, clmgmg des-
perately to their precious dignity, but at last they tired of the
relentless pursuit and, taking to the air with turbulent commotion,
circled over our heads, their great wings making a rhythmic
drumming sound.

Having followed the Penk to its confliuence with the Sow near
Stafford, the canal, which had up to now been heading almost dues
north, swung abruptly south-eastwards to follow the Sow valley,
thus circling the high ground which marched continuously on the
right bank. At this turning point was the blocked-up mouth of the
old Stafford Branch, and also the Staflfdrd Salt Works, where we
saw the solitary Day Boat unloading its weekly cargo, and knew
that we were entering deserted waters. Even on the canals where
it is a common occurrence to travel all day without meeting another
boat there is an added sense of satisfaction to be derived from
navigating a disused water-way.

If any proof were needed that we were the first boat to cover the
four miles from Baswich to Haywood for many months, it was the
dense patch of weed which we struck near Lodgefield Bridge.
Fortunately it did not extend very far, for it was a veritable Sar-
gasso, so dense and deep that although we entered it at a good
pace, ‘Cressy’ rapidly lost way, and only just reached clear water
without assistance.

At Millford, beneath the shadow of the Millford Hills, we
crossed the river by an old stone-built aqueduct of the familiar
Brindley construction, and approached the last lock on the canal,
Old Hill or Tixall. The lock-keeper was busy on the tow-path
t rimmin g the hedge, but as we hove in sight round the bend he
dropped his bill and ran back to the lock as fast as his elderly legs
would carry him. No wonder the passage of a boat through Tixall
Lx^k was something of a major event, for we were the first, he
said, for six months. He insisted upon working the lock for us,
which was probably all to the good, since the lower gates were so
decrq)it that they looked in imminent danger of collapse and
leaked so badly t^t the lock chamber had half emptied before he
had had time to draw the paddles. He assured us, not without

‘Deserted Waters’

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NARROW BOAT

pride, that one gate at least was over thirty years old, and we saw
no reason to doubt it.

If we had been struck by the beauty of Great Haswood when
we came to it by the Trent and Mersey Canal, the approach from
this direction surpassed it. Coming round a bend below the tail of
the lock the canal broadened imexpectedly, so that we found our-
selves sailing out into a long lake fringed by tall flags and dotted
with hundreds of coot and moorhen. Though the water was very
deep, it was of such remarkable crystal clarity that, looking down
from the deck, I could see every pebble on the bottom, and the full
shape of our hull. In this way we came to the Junction by the
fandliar, graceful bridge, drifting slowly across this still expanse
of water which might well have been that magic mere whence
Bedivere flung Excalibur, the lazy ripples from our screw dying
long before they reached its borders.

On the crest of a park-like slope overlooking this lake we had
noticed a curious building, which we took to be Tixall Hall, so, as
there were some hours of daylight left when we had moored by
the Junction, we set out on foot to explore. What we had seen
turned out to be merely the enormous gatehouse, a most fearsome
example of Strawberry Hill Gothic. Its three-storeyed facade
gaped with great stone muUions, while over the archway plump
nude figures reclined in voluptuous abandonment. Behind this
monstrosity lay a vast barrack of stabling in the shape of a
rotunda, but of the house itself not a stone remained. Assuming
the gatehouse to have been but an insignificant foretaste of things
to come, I shudder to contemplate what the hall must have looked
like, for as an example of the grotesque caricatures which resulted
from self-conscious architects’ attempts to recreate the purity of
mediaeval Gothic, the gatehouse of Tixall could scarcely be sur-
passed. Its floors are^ missing, and the great open fireplaces, one
above the other, yawn into space, but we climbed a spiral stairway
in one of the turrets and, standing on the ‘battlements’ gazed out
across the slope of the park, over the canal to the wooded heights
of the Satnall Hflls, where, sure enough, stood the inevitable
‘whimsy’ without widch no eighteenth-century ‘vista’ was com-
plete. It also was evident that the canal had been bidden to con-
ceal its commercial origin and masquerade as a lake to placate the
vanished lord of TixaU.

Descending, we walked back to the boat, through the gathering
dusk. Along &e water-side the coot were clucking and calling to each
other, setting the tall rushes waving as they scurried to their shelter.

Chapter XXXII

LICHFIELD AND THE COVENTRY CANAL

The Coventry Canal has had a very chequered history. Its con-
struction was authorised by ParUament in 1768, James Brindley
being appointed engineer, but unfortunately the capital of the
company proved quite inadequate if the work was to be carried
out according to his plans, so, having constructed the first four-
teen miles from Coventry to Atherstone, he threw up his appoint-
ment, lest it should bring his name into discredit The canal re-
mained in this unfinished state for many years, until at last hi
1785, the Birmingham and Fazeley and the Grand Trunk Com-
panies between them completed the section from Atherstone to
Fradley Junction, The fortunes of the Coventry Company then
improved sufiicienfly to enable them to purchase that portion
constructed by the Grand Trunk from Fradley to Whittington
Brook near Lichfield, but the remaining five and a half miles from
the latter place to Fazeley is still owned by the Birmingham Canal
Company, so that through trafl&c has to pay two tolls. This is
only one instance of the complicated toll payments which beset
the long-distance canal trader and constitute one of the reasons
why canal transport has declined. It is significant that the railway
companies, who have long ago set their own house in order by
means of tbe railway clearing house, have done nothing to remedy
this state of affairs on the many canals which they own.

Having made our way without incident down the familiar
length of the Trent and Mersey from Great Ha^ood, we moored
for a night beside ‘The Swan’ at Fradley Junction before embark-

169

170

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ing once more on strange waters. Strange indeed they proved to
be, for on the little-used section as far as Fazeley the mud banks
on the turns were quite the worst we had encountered. A pair of
loaded ‘Joshers’ travelling south from Manchester which preceded
us proved that laden craft can navigate successfully, albeit slowly,
but we were lucky not to meet any boats while we were on the
way, as in many places passing would have been extremely difficult.

We had not been travelling long before our old enemy the wind
got up, making navigation so difficult that by midday we decided
to abandon further progress before we became badly stranded, and
moored at Huddlesford, the junction of the Wyrley and Essington
Canal, in sight of the spires of Lichfield.

Curiously enough, Lichfield was the only cathedral town we
visited on our travels, if one excludes Leicester, whose parish
church of St. Martin has only been raised to the dignity of a
cathedral in recent years. The birthplace of Samuel Johnson, Lich-
field is in theory a market town, but the open market which we
saw in the square under the statue of the immortal doctor can
have been but the poor shadow of its former self. The industrial
development of Cannock has taken its inevitable toll of the town
and the country aroimd it, nor are matters improved by the heavy
traffic of Rykneld Street which thunders by, shaking the old houses
to their foundations. Nevertheless a great deal that is old and
graceful stiU survives, while once away from the din of the lorries
one is made aware of that particular atmosphere of enduring peace
and tranquility which seems to permeate the very stones of a
cathedral town. This ageless quality was particularly strong in
the cathedral close, reminiscent of Salisbury, where gracious
houses of every age overlook the trim grass quadrangle where
stands the great church. Places such as this are backwaters in
time, surviving in a frenzied age to speak of a more ordered
world than ours. Standing upon this green while rooks cawed in
the trees and high overhead the bells chimed the quarters in
leisured repetition, the mind saw gardeners in green baize aprons
pruning roses, the dean at tea upon the lawn, and heard the cUck
of phantom croquet mallets.

The general proportions of the cathedral are magnificent, the
triple spires from a distance a beautiful example of the soaring
majesty that can be achieved in stone, but on closer approach the
eye is distracted from its appreciation of the grace of the general
form by the over-elaboration of detail decoration. Particularly is

LICHFIELD AND THE COVENTRY CANAL 171

this true of the West Front, where a multiplicity of image niches,
many containing inferior reproductions of the original occupants,
are reminiscent of an overburdened comer of some museum. Yet
when it is realised that Lichfield suffered more than any other
church in England at the hands of the Puritans, having already
survived the usual vicissitudes at the Dissolution, it must be
admitted that the restorers have displayed far more than the
average good taste. Cromwell’s cannon shot down the central
tower, the great bells were broken, even the lead was stripped from
the roofs, while large portions of the fabric were pulled down and
sold piecemeal. When at the Restoration of Charles 11 the work of
rebuilding was begun, there were only two of the original Cathedral
body left to remember its former glory. Canon Wilham Higgins,
the Precentor, and the Subchanter, who went by the curious name
of Zachariah Turnpenny. Soon after, the celebrated Bishop
Hackett joined forces with them, and it is to the energy of this
devoted trio that the credit for the reconstruction must largely
be due.

Unfortunately, the Victorians, as usual, have had their innings,
their most noticeable contribution being the ornate reredos of
polished stone behind the high altar, which was the work of Sir
Gilbert Scott, and certainly in no way enhances the view of the
east end from the nave. The eye is soon lifted up to higher and
better things, however, for the great east window and those of the
Lady Chapel are aglow with superb sixteenth-century glass which
originally graced the Cistercian Abbey at Herckemode. I have
seen no finer glass than this, and to compare it with the modem
painted windows in the choir aisles is to realise that the making
of coloured glass is yet another of our lost arts.

The other feature of the Cathedral which particularly attracted
us was the Chapter House. It is a ten-sided building with a very
fine vaulted roof supported by a single .central column which
reveals in a most striking manner the individuality of the mediaeval
stonemason. For it is obviously the work of four men, each of
whom adopted a distinctive design for his particular portion of
the richly carved abacus from which the ten shafts of the vaulting
spring. The result of such independence might well have been
chaotic, yet such was the comeliness of thek communal thought
that the result is perfectly harmonious. Thus this column con-
stitutes a perfect vindication of the infallible ‘ri^tness’ of all true
craftsmanship.

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NARROW BOAT

One of the corbels which support the roof-ribs represents a
cowled monk whose features, grinning sardonically, are turned
away from the Chapter House table. Thereby hangs a tale, for
this stone head, carved with great vigour and skill, commemorates
the differences which long existed between the rival chapters,
secular and monastic, of Lichfield and Coventry over the right of
electing Bishops to the See. So corrupt did the monastic order
become that upon one famous occasion when Coventry held the
privilege, and a newly elected bishop, who was known to have
obtained office by graft, arrived at Lichfield, the dean and chapter
exercised their little-known right and closed the great west doors
in his face. Today these disputes are long forgotten, and the
chapter controls the largest diocese in England, while oifiy a monk
of stone averts his ageless face from their council table.

Owing to the continuing high wind we lay for a whole day at
Huddlesford before moving on through a dreary country of sodden,
neglected pastures in the valley of the river Tame. We were now
heading due south, having followed different river valleys round
three sides of Cannock. For a short distance our surroundings
improved as we passed along the steeply sloping flank of Hopwas
Hays wood, with the river directly below us, but the blackened
village of Hopwas just beyond proclaimed only too clearly that
we were now on the very edge of the Black Country. Half an hour
later we sighted the tower of Tamworth church beside the great
sandstone block of the de Frevilles’ Norman castle, and so came
to Fazeley, the junction of the Birmingham Canal, and a drab
viUage on Watling Street, where we made a brief stop to buy sup-
plies. Joume5dng on again, we soon entered Warwickshire by an
aqueduct over the Tame, and worked our way up the two locks
at Glascote, where we paid our Birmingham Canal toll. We were
now in a dour neighbourhood of chimney-stacks and sprawling
tenements, so that the sight of an old friend, the ‘Captain Cook’,
one of the familiar Oxford Canal traders, lying newly painted in
Samuel Barlow’s dockyard, was as welcome and unexpected as
flowers in December. It was good to see once more the bright pro-
fusion’ of roses and castles on her cabin sides, and the vivid
diamond work of mast and cratches. Actually it turned out that
‘Captain Cook’ was only the first of many, in fact the whole of
this next and somewhat sombre stage of our journey from Glascote
to Hawkesbury was lightened by the beauty and variety of the
boats we met.

LICHFIELD AND THE COVENTRY CANAL 173

They were changing shifts at the collieries round Amington and
Alvecote above the locks, for we met many pitmen trudging home
by twos and threes along the tow-path, their faces so blackened
with coal-dust and sweat that as they turned to grin at us teeth and
eyeballs flashed like those of a coon at a seaside concert party.
We passed through the heart of some of these pits, between barren
shale-tips, rows of ‘tubs’, spinning headgears and basins where
boats were loading. On every hand the land had been laid waste
by subsidences, pastures had become reedy swamps of stagnant
water, while such farm buildings as remained stood empty and
were fast falling to ruin. What we could not see, but could picture
most vividly, was the inhuman darkness of the narrow galleries
below, the heat, the choking dust and the din of the coal-cutting
machines, the hell below earth that the demand for power has
created.

That night we lay at Pooley Hall, where this new world met the
old. They stood side by side on the canal bank, a colliery wreathed
in steam and smoke, and the crumbling, battlemented tower of the
old hall. The tower returned the blank stare of the tall windows of
the winding house from arrow slits that were like eyes veiled with
mistrust.

Throughout the next day our course lay along the valley of the
Anker to Atherstone, where we stopped to replenish our fuel tanks.
Atherstone is an old market town which has suffered inevitably
from its situation on the Watling Street and its proximity to Bir-
mingham, or ‘Bimigum’ as the boat people call the canal centre of
England. As a result the town appears to derive more of its revenue
from ‘commercial gentlemen’ than from the farmer, for, as though
determined to carve a particular niche for itself in the complex
structure of industrial development that was springing up on every
side, Atherstone now manufactures bowler hats in prodigious
quantities. Peering through the dusty windows of warehouses, we
could see enough to supply a generation of salesmen.

The flight of twelve locks here were quite the slowest filling of
any we had encoimtered. We had ascended seven before going
into the town, and on our return we decided to push on through
the r emaining five before dark, so that we would have a clear nm
before us the next morning. We thought we should accomplish
this easily, but by the time we moored at the summit ni^t had
fallen, and our tea was therefore somewhat belated.

Later that evening in the inn whose windows overlooked our

NARROW BOAT

174

moorings we fell into conversation with, two boatmen, and the talk
turned to the subject of donkeys — or ‘animals’, as they are called
on the canals. Once they were used extensively, a pair to a single
boat, but now to the best of my knowledge this practice is extinct
They appear to have been most favoured by boatmen on the Wor-
cester and Birmingham Canal, but since this is a waterway which
‘Cressy’ has not yet visited, I do not know whether any still survive.
There seems to be no good reason for their extinction, as all boat-
men agree that they were good workers, long lived, extremely
hardy and cheap, because they would eat almost anything. I had
previously enquired of canal folk in many parts of the country
whether any donkeys were still in use, but received, as on this
occasion, a negative reply, followed by a flood of reminiscence.
The latter inevitably included reference to a certain boatman who
had worked over the ‘Stour Cut’ with a pair of ‘animals’, the
stories of his exploits being so widespread over the waterways that
it seemed he was rapidly becoming a legendary figure. The lock-
keeper at Tixall had spoken of him, and now in this inn at Ather-
stone we heard the same feats recounted.

‘A gr^t strong chap he was. Why, when these animals of his
got a bit tired like he’d lift ’em aboard and haul the boat hisself
for a mile or two.’ Or again : ‘One winter he was iced up for so
long StouTport way he was spent up and had to sell ’em to make
out. So he bow hauled for a trip or two that time till he’d made
enough to buy ’em back.’

Just before we cast away the next morning one of our friends of
the previous night passed us with the most resplendent pair of
newly pamted boats we had yet seen, the motor ‘Forget-me-not’
and &e butty ‘Sarah Jane’ of Leighton Buzzard, southward bound
with co^. Needless to say, they were ‘Number Ones’, and it was
heartening to see that their captain, who was inordmately proud
of them, was a young man still in his twenties.

The steep hill ridge which marches beside the right bank of the
canal from Atherstone to Nuneaton has been so eroded by granite
quarries that its profile has become a succession of beetling rock
faces and towering waste-heaps. Every now and again minute
locomotives and rows of tipping wagons appeared in sharp sil-
houette on their hi^ skyline, and we heard repeatedly the deep,
reverberating thud of blasting. So great is the concussion of
these blasts, particularly in the neighbourhood of Tuttle
HiU, that the quarrying companies are constantly paying com-

LICHFIELD AND THE COVENTRY CANAL 175

pensation to the local inhabitants for broken crockery or
window-panes.

Nuneaton, with its adjoining suburb of Chilvers Coton, pre-
sented us with the worst example of suburban jerry-building we
had seen, a desert of mediocrity which terminated finally in the
first canal-side inn, which we had no hesitation whatsoever in
passing by. A dingy building of sooty-grey stucco, it announced
in gilt letters a foot hi^ that it was ‘Ye Olde Wharfe Inne’, thus
carrying the ‘old-world’ fetish to the ultimate limit of absurdity.

Continumg without pause until we had left this cheerless region
well astern, we passed the junction of the Ashby-de-la-Zouch
canal at Marston, and moored for lunch at a more honest inn at
Bedworth which overlooked a busy wharf where many boats were
loading coal from the Brownsover collieries. Here we found a very
patriarch among boatmen. Retired now, he sat yarning with his
late companions in the bar, wearing a shiny peaked cap and an old
reefer jacket. Though he looked a vigorous sixty, he was actually
seventy-nine years old, and since the death of his sister at the age
of ninety-eight he had lived quite alone in the cottage next door,
where they had both been bom. This cottage, it transpired, had
been scheduled for demolition under the Slum Qearance Act, for
the veteran related with great gusto how he had dealt with the
inspector who had visited them. ‘ “We’U walk straight down into
t’cut fust’, I told en; “for we was bom ’ere, an’ we means to die
’ere.” That touched en, see,’ the old man explamed triumphantly,
and the upshot was that the cottage was to stand for the remainder
of his days. In the course of fifty years a-boating he had ‘buried
three wives i’ different parts o’ the country’. This and a deal more
he told us, but his speech was so broad that at tunes it was ex-
tremely difficult to foUow. It abounded in quaint turns of phrase
most apt and rich, such as ‘billy-bally work’ to describe the
arduous yet delicate task of unloading a fragile cargo of bricks,
and when he at last rose to go, it was with a ‘Good day to you,
good people’ that he bade us farewell.

Just as we were leaving Bedworth we met the wife of the captain
of the ‘Franklin’, a boat we had last seen at ‘The Bull and Butcher’
at Napton. From her we learned that a tragedy had taken place
on the morning after our last meeting. Her husband had been
taken seriously ill while diey were ascending Napton Locks, and
had died in his cabin before a doctor could reach him. Thou^ we
could do no more than express conventional sympathy, it was with

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a genuine feeling of regret that I learned of his passing, for he was
a quiet, kindly man whom I had come to know well during my
long stay at Banbury. No doubt he had been born in a boat cabin,
lived all his days upon the water, and would have chosen no other
place in which to die. There was consolation in the thought of
this hard yet simple life ending as it had begun.

Chapter XXXIII
THE OXFORD CANAL AGAIN

Though it continued for a further five and a half miles to its
terminus in Coventry basin, we came to the end of our journey
over the Coventry Canal when we reached its junction with the
Oxford Canal at Hawkesbury. The early engineers seem to have
constructed canal junctions with a blissful disregard for the length
of the boats which would have to negotiate them, for with a few
rare exceptions they are so acute that boats must needs be checked
round with lines from the shore. In this respect Hawkesbury
Junction was even worse than most, the two canals actually
running parallel with each other for a little distance, only a few
yards apart, before being connected by an acute Wpin turn
beneath a roving bridge. This presented us with a nice little
problem in navigation, and as our approach was watched with
curiosity by the crews of several moored boats, we were particularly
anxious to give a good accoimt of ourselves. The fates usually
ordain that such circumstances lead to some humiliating fiasco,
but on this occasion we were lucky. By putting ‘Cressy’ alternately
ahead and astern and at the same time using the rudder as a paddle
to swing her stem, we came about in fine style, without having
to use lines or shafts.

When we had paid our dues to Oxford in the toll office beside
the stop lock, it was a relief to find ourselves heading for open
country once more, after so many miles on the sooty fringes of the
Black Country, and that night we moored at Ansty, the first purely
agricultural village we had seen since we left Fradley. There is a
considerable traffic over this northern section of the Oxford Canal,
so much so that ‘Qressy’, disturbed by the wash of passing boats,

NARROW BOAT

178

carried away the seemingly substantial fence post to which we
had moored her bow and swung broadside across the water
during the night. The first we knew of this was when we were
awakened in the early hours of the morning by the urgent siren
of an approaching Grand Union boat
The original course of the canal from Hawkesbury to Napton
as laid out by Brindley was even more roundabout than the summit
section from Marston Doles to Claydon is today, but in 1820
new cuts were made to avoid these detours, with the result that the'
total length of the canal has been reduced by no less than thirteen
nailes. So tortuous was the old canal around Brinklow that it was a
well-known saying among the boatmen which has come down
through successive generations to the present day that ‘You could
.travel all day within sound of Brinklow clock’. As we traversed
the ‘new’ embankments and cuttings, which were reminiscent of
the Shropshire Union, the old waterway crossed and re-crossed
our course, winding away over the fields, in places a barely
discernible depression of &e ground, in others still a reedy bed
spanned by a crumbling brick bridge.

For some years after the improved canal was cut, sections of the
old remained navigable in the guise of short branches to the neigh-
bouring villages, but with the decline of short-distance traJEc
these, too, have fallen to ruin. One of these was the branch to
Brinldow, and just beyond its reed-grown entrance in a wooded
cutting by the park of Newbold Revel we moored and walked into
the village. Brinklow’s single main street of great length, in places
bordered by a strip of greensward, is characteristic of the district,
and the heterogeneous rank of houses of every style,age andmaterial
somehow contrive to mix passably well with one ano&er. This
gently sloping street was overlooked at its upper end by one of the
largest castle mounds, circled by a double moat, that 1 have ever
seen. Of its history we could discover nothing, but, since it stands on
the Fosse Way, the Romans no doubt made use of it. The church
at the foot of this mound had image niches let into the an^es of
the tower, and within the remains of a stone stairway by the
chancel arch which evidently once gave access to a vanished rood
sareen. We subsequently discovered that these two features were
to be found in many churches in this neighbourhood. Much more
remarkable was the floor of the nave and chancel, which sloped
steqply upwards to the altar, to produce an effect that was most
curious and, in my expadence, unique. No doubt the reason was

THE OXFORD CANAL AGAIN

179

simply a structural one, although the old lady who was busily
dusting the pews had other and more startling ideas. ”Twas the
battle as done it,’ she declared, jerking her head in the direction
of the castle mound. ‘Back in the old days, so they say.’ But how
a mediaeval battle achieved this remarkable result, and who
‘they’ were she did not explain.

A fine rain began to fall as we were walking back to the boat
with some jars of honey which we had bought from a bee-keeper
in the village, so we decided to journey no farther that day. The
next morning dawned fine, however, and die strong wind which
had swept away the rain-clouds gave us little trouble, as the canal
was for the most part sheltered by taU hedgerows which seemed
purposely to have been left unlaid to afford a wind-break. These
were covered with a prodigal crop of scarlet hips and haws, on
which scores of bullfinches were feeding. We had never before
seen so many of these lovely birds. Travelling well, we reached
Newbold-upon-Avon by noon, having passed through the short
tunnel of that name. Newbold is a pleasant village, but un-
fortunately it is rapidly becoming a suburb of Rugby, for it stands
on hi^ ground overlooking its u^y nei^bour, whose outskirts
are relentlessly advancing up the slope towards it We ate a simple
lunch of bread and cheese at the sign of ‘The Boat’ by the canal
side, a sign representing a narrow boat on the move which did the
brewers concerned, a Leamington firm, great credit. In some
quarters there is evidence such as this that the neglected art of the
inn sign is being belatedly revived, some more enlightened brewers,
notably Messrs. Flowers of Stratford-on-Avon, having accom-
plished much in recent years. Evidently it is dawning upon the
brewers’ commercial min d that the average countryman goes to
the village inn because he is thirsty and because he wishes to gossip
with his nei^bours, and tharefore that to advertise their beer
in foot-hi^ letters across the outside walls is not merely unsightly,
but expensive and ineffectuaL

The most notable feature of the red sandstone church at New-
bold are the memorials of the Boughton family. They are in-
escapable, because the church is full of them, and they constitute
a striking commentary on the transition of style and taste through
the ages. The fifteenth-century knight and his lady lie side by side,
he in his full plate armour, she in weeds and coif, their simplicity
and the calm repose of their features eloquent of dignity. Near by
the smaller painted figure of their be-ruffled Tudor descendant

NARROW BOAT

180

kneels with his wife and children, a monument more stylised and
naive, but no less sincere. Finally, occupying a considerable area
of the small chancel, there stands the ornate marble memorial
to the eighteenth-century scion of the house. This life-size figure,
with pupil-less eyes blankly staring, and looking, in its studied
pose, lifeless and empty of all feeling, surmoxmts a plinth whereon
his manifold virtues are described at fulsome length. It is a wonder
the armoured kni^t does not arise lance in hand to tumble this
pompous popinjay from his pedestal of conceit.

Passing northwards of Rugby and crossing the valleys of the
Swift and Avon, we came that afternoon to the three locks at
HUlmorton, where stand the tall steel masts of the Post Office
transatlantic beam. Dusk found us crossing a wilderness of flat
scrub pasture-land, which, on referring to my map, I found to be
the edge of Dunsmore Heath, and it was in this desolate place,
under the meagre shelter of a row of stunted thorn bushes, that
we moored for the night in a rising gale. It blew so hard overnight
that ‘Cressy’ uprooted both her mooring spikes and drifted astern
for over two hundred yards, fortunately without swinging across
the channel or doing any damage.

We had been travelling for little over two hours the next morning
before we sighted the familiar spire of Braunston church perched
upon its hill, and so, at the junction of the Grand Union Canal,
we completed the second loop of the huge figure of eight in which
we had travelled round the Midlands of England. We did not care
that from this point onwards as far as Banbury we should be
navigating familiar waters, for no matter how many times one
may journey over the same canal, its beauty is ever changing ac-
cording to the season, and the fascinating character of this slow
canal travel is sufficient in itself. Nor is this all, as we discovered
when we had moored just south of Braunston turn.

No matter how observant a traveller may be, he cannot discover
all the interesting things he passes on a single journey, and we had
not before noticed the church standing lost in the fields a little
distance from the canal, with only a rough track leading to the
door. Near by was a substantial farm and a solitary cottage, the
total extent, it would seem, of what from the map I concluded was
the hamlet of Wolfamcote. We found that the church, which
was very large for so small a place, was locked, but, as we hoped,
the cottage held the key, which they gave to us willingly, explaining
that services were only held during the summer months, owing to

THE OXFORD CANAL AGAIN

181

the absence of any form of heating system. Even with the help
of the key we had a struggle to get in, since the square rod to which
the door handle was attached was so worn that it would no longer
lift the latch. Within a tragic scene of desolation met our eyes.
The stone floor was covered with dust and debris, while damp
streamed down the walls from the leaking roof, part of which
had been covered with corrugated iron. In the midst of this ruin
stood some magnificent oak pews and a fourteenth-century oak
screen slowly mouldering into decay. Some of the slender balusters
of the latter had already given way, and had been replaced by
pitifully poor machine-turned replicas. Of the stonework worthy
of mention, there were some corbel heads of true Gothic vigour,
and a fine Norman font, while the tower showed signs of very
early workmanship. Yet we did not linger long, for there was an
indescribable air of melancholy about this forsaken church,
standing alone in the fields. Even its dead seemed long forgotten,
so overgrown were the drunkenly leardng tombstones by the long
rank grass of the churchyard. It was good to be out in the fresh
air and the sunli^t again, crossing the fields to the boat.

We made ‘The Bull and Butcher’ that night, and the next, a
windy day of bitter cold, the top of Napton Locks at Marston
Doles. Despite gloomy forecasts of snow, the wind dropped
overnight, and the morning was clear and frosty as we set out
over the winding summit level. Every man has some particular
part of England that he favours most, so perhaps it was mere
prejudice on my part that made this rolling coimtry of the North
Oxfordshire border appear softer, kindlier and of more subtle
colouring, in its shades of blue and green, than any we had seen to
the north. Certainly the day gave of its best, especially towards
evening, when we approached Fenny Compton Wharf, and the sun,
sitikiTig clear and red, bathed the broad fields and gentle hills in
such a magic light that the country looked just as lovely as it had
done in the languorous days of high summer.

On the following evening we reached Cropredy, the old cottages
of stone and thatch appearing like old and famfiiar friends. In
sharp contrast to that summer evening, the first of our long journey,
when we had last passed by, the air was keen with frost as we walked
up the street to ‘The Red Lion’ after dinner, and when we awoke
next morning the canal was covered with ice, all the willows
glittering with rime.

Ice soon cuts deeply into the timbers of a wooden narrow boat.

NARROW BOAT

182

but we were particularly anxious to reach Banbury if, as seemed
highly probable, we were destined to be frozen in. The distance to
be covered was short, so we started away, carving through the
seemingly solid surface ahead with a loud grinding noise, and leav-
ing behind us a dark, narrow channel fringed with jutting points.
When we reached the familiar outskirts of Banbury it was to find
that the influx of warm water from factories had prevented the ice
from forming, and so it was through clear water that we reached
familiar moorings at the Banbxuy Boatyard.

Chapter XXXIV
FROST

The threat of frost was fulfilled more thoroughly than ever we
had thought possible, and for nearly three months we lay at
Banbury, held immovable m the grip of ice six inches thick It
soon became difficult to believe that we had ever been afloat,
for the famili ar rocking motion with which the boat responded
to our movements or to a sudden gust of wind had ceased, and
when, after a fortnight of black frost, a heavy fall of snow covered
the boat, the canal and the banks in a uniform mantle of white,
the illusion of solid foundation was complete. At night the ice
creaked and cracked with hollow reverberation or a sharp repetitive
knocking, like urgent knuckles rapping against the hull, white
sounds from other boats were mysteriously magnified as through
some whispering gallery.

Our unorthodox design for living emerged triumphantly from
the supreme test of this severe weather, while in the town gas and
water supplies were often cut off and many an icicle from sill
or down-spout told a sorry tale of burst pipes. Burning night and
day with little attention, the stove in our sitting-cabin maintained
a constant cheerful warmth, while two small paraflEin heaters
efiectively kq)t the frost from the drinking-water tank and the
independent boiler in the bathroom. Furthermore, the intake of
the hand pump supplying the galley sink remained below ice level,
and so maintained an uninterrupted water supply.

For company we had the Hone family— father and son— with

183

NARROW BOAT

184

their three boats. They, like us, were lucky to have reached a
mooring so convenient for supplies, for news slowly filtered over
the beleaguered water-way of others less fortunate who, marooned
at Claydon Top, ‘Fenny’, or Marston Doles, were reduced to
drinking canal water and walking many miles for bread. The time
passed pleasantly enough, for not only were there several minor
repairs and improvements which we had in any case intended to
carry out at Banbury, but many were the talks we had with old
Mr. Alfred Hone and his wife, who had moored ‘Cylgate’ im-
mediately opposite. We visited each other’s cabins, we to marvel
at their ‘ infini te treasure in a little room’— the family photographs,
the openwork plates, the knick-knacks, the lace and brass (the
latter including a beautifully made pair of miniature lock wind-
lasses), for all of which they contrived to find a place— and they
to tip-toe gingerly over our carpet and gaze with polite incredulity
at our bath.

Thou^ Mr. Hone was sixty-five years old, it would be grossly
unfair to describe him as an old man, for he was as well preserved,
as active and tireless as most men of half his age. His bright blue
eyes, deep set amid good-humoured wrinkles in his tanned face,
twinJded perpetually with the infectious merriment of youth while
he related with a wealth of quaintly phrased detail innumerable
simple tales of his long life on the canals. He told of his youth,
when, with his father, he had worked ‘up the West Country by
Boblukoi’, by which he meant the upper Thames and Bablock-
hythe. He told, too, of the six years he had spent courting his first
wife. Their wooing had perforce been restricted to the rare oc-
casions when their boats met m the short pound between Napton
Junction and Braunston, for he was working to Oxford, while
she was a boat girl on the London-Birmin^am route. It was
easy to see that he was proud of those six years, and the faded,
old-fashioned photograph which he preserved made such patient
tenacity readily understandable. For the first Mrs. Hone must
undoubtedly have been a very handsome woman. Her- features
looked firm and finely mould^, while a pair of dark gipsy ^es
gazed with a fixed, proud steadfastness from the tawdry confines
of the cheap gilt frame. Her dark hair was braided into plaits
coiled about her head, and she wore a massive pair of gold earrings.

His present wife, prior to marriage, had worked at ‘The George
and Dragon’ at Fenny Compton. Courtship this time had been
accelerated to twice-weekly visits as he plied to and fro, with the

‘ Winter on the Oxford Canal ’

NARROW BOAT

m

result that it had occupied a mere four years. Thin, energetic,
hard-headed Mrs. Hone, though lacking the glamour of her pre-
decessor, was an admirable second in command, and an almost
unique ejtample of a woman who had in middle age adapted herself
to the boatman’s way of living with complete success. In fact,
she averred stoutly that she would never go back to the land.
It would seem the quiet waterways had opened strange doors
within her simple mind, to reveal a dimly comprehended beauty
which she could ill express, but which far outweighed the synthetic
attractions of the cinema, which constitute the usual refuge of her
class, for, she explained, ‘It’s so quiet and peaceful like, nobody
don’t trouble you and,’ she added, ‘in the spring up ’leven mile
pound you can smell the violets in the banks something lovely
as you goes along.’

Being ‘off the land’, Mrs. Hone was the only member of the
family capable of rea^g or writing, and was regarded with a
certain awe in consequence. On Sxmday mornings it became
customary for her to stand at the cabin hatch of the ‘Cylgate’
as before a lectern, reading extracts from the Sunday newspaper in
a slow, expressionless monotone to a rapt audience, consisting of
the rest of the family and any other canal folk who happened to
be within earshot. They habitually stood in a silent group on the
tow-path, never interrupting, but pondering each word as thiough
it was a pearl of wisdom from some remote and god-like in-
telligence.

After the snowfall came signs of a thaw, and the ice-breakers
were brought out. These consist of small but stoutly built steel
boats varying from thirty to fifty feet long and, unlike most other
canal cr^t, having completely rounded bilges. The larger boats
have a smgle bar mounted waist high amidships, the smaller
two bars along the gunwales. To these cling a gang of willing
volunteers, who, by swinging their wei^t to and fro, impart a
vigorous rocking motion to the boat as it is drawn along by as
many as six horses. This rocking action, which at first si^t has
something of the absurdity of a child’s game being played by
grown men, is actually extranely hard physical labour, and
essential if the ice is to be broken effectively. For if the boat were
allowed to ‘swim’ upon an even keel, the ice upon either side of her
would remain unbroken, with the result that she would soon
either become tightly jammed or else be drawn bodily on to the
top of the ice.

FROST

187

Two gangs of breakers made a spectacular arrival at Banbury,
one from the north and the other from the south. Long before
they came in sight their approach was heralded by a grinding and
crashing sound that was like the clash of arms, then round the
bend came the sweating horses, keeping a fine pace, as though
entering into the spirit of the adventure. Finally the boat itself
appeared, rolling almost gunwale under from the efforts of her
heaving crew, who, ruddy-faced from the cold wind and strenuous
labour, seemed oblivious alike to the jets of icy water which spurted
from overside and the dirty puddle which slopped to and fro
beneath their feet. At the tiller stood an elderly lengthman,
balancing first on one leg, then on the other as he endeavoured to
keep the bucketing craft upon some semblance of a course.

In the wake of these pioneers came the liberated boats, the ice-
floes slithering and grinding round their bows, but Alfred Hone
looked at the clearing sky, shook his head significantly, and made
no move to be gone. His weather wisdom was confirmed that
night, when, under stars of cold brilliance, the frost set in again
with redoubled bitterness.

This long period of enforced idleness told heavily upon the
slender resources of the boatmen, especially the ‘Number Ones’.
Those employed by carrying companies had half-pay or the dole to
fall back upon, but the ‘Number Ones’ were reduced to living
on their ‘docking money’ — ^in other words, the hard-earned savings
normally set aside for the periodical overhaul of their boats.
At long last, however, the seemingly endless spell of clear weather
and biting north-east winds came to an end in a day of mist and
grey, scurrying clouds. Simultaneously the wind veered sharply
to file south-west, and soon the gurgle of running water from every
downspout, ditch and culvert proclaimed the thaw. Next morning
the sun rose warm above a steaming haze, and CherweU, swollen
by the melting snowdrifts of the Wolds, overran its broad water-
meadows. Even on the canal the flood-water coursed down over
the ice, submerging the towing-path and thundering over the lock
gates, despite the fact that both paddles had been drawn.

When these floods had abated, the ice-breakers set forth once
more, and there was great activity down the long fine of moored
boats. Brasses were polished, trusses of hay were stowed under
fore-hatches, and finally, while the motor-boats were starting thek
long-silent engines, the horses were brought out, looking plump
and sleek after their long rest. Amid this bustle and commotion

NARROW BOAT

18 S

there was much talk and good-natured banter between boat and
boat, for everyone was glad to be on the move again.

Despite its great thickness, the ice thawed with surprising
rapidity, and in a day or so all that remained to tell of the great
frost were thin, smooth-edged floating fragments which, at the
passage of a boat, jostled each other with a musical tinkling sound
like that of Japanese windbells. Soon even these vanished, and
there was a smell in the air that presaged the turn of the year. A
great tit piped his recurrent call from the branch of the apple
tree that overhung the boatyard wall. It was time to be gone.

SHTPrON-bN-CHERWELL

Chapter XXXV
SPRING AT HAMPTON GAY

Tte sun was shining brightly on the morning we set forth on the
last stage of our interrupted journey. Banbury’s sordid southern
outskirts around the railway station were soon passed by, so that
we presently found ourselves winding through the familiar Cher-
well meadows, our landmarks the towers of Banbury astern and the
tall, remarkably slender spire of Kings Sutton rising above the
willows to the south-east.

We had been travelling little more than half an hour when we
reached Grants Lock, the first below Banbury, and here we met
witih an imexpected delay. When we came to swing the lower gate,
which, as is the case at all the locks between Banbury and Oxford,
was a massive single one, the ‘breast’, rotted with age, parted from
the balance beam. Lacking the counter-balancing effect of
the beam, the gate at once dropped in its quoins and refused to
open. After several abortive attempts had failed, we hit upon a
plan. The spindles operating the paddles were mounted on the
beam, so, by disconnecting the pinion of one of them from its
rack and by lashing a line between it and the gate below, we were
able to use it as a winch to draw the two together. This done, we
had no difficulty in locking throu^, but our repair looked so
perilously insecure that we lost no time in reporting the damage
to the lock-keeper at King’s Sutton wharf.

189

190

NARROW BOAT

Apart from this incident the day’s journey was uneventful, but
doubly enjoyable after so long a spell of enforced idleness. Though
not so intricately tortuous as on its course north of Banbury,
the canal was never so straight as to become dull, but wound this
way and that in a delightfully haphazard fashion as it followed the
loops and curves of the river valley, while the characteristic
wooden drawbridges were here so numerous that their spreading
beams, uplifted over the fields, were the dominant feature of our
landscape. Because they were for the most part little used,
affording access from field to field, most of them were open to the
waterway, thou^ some were unsecured, and rocked in the breeze
to give us some uneasy moments when we slid through the narrow
channel beneath them.

At Nell Bridge we came in sight of Aynho, a trim cluster of grey
cottages on the crest of a hill a mile distant. Though brick was the
chosen medium of the canal builders, here even they had used stone
for the fixed bridges, for we were now entering the stone country
proper, the grey Cotswold oolite that flows over the wolds to spill
into the valleys of Evenlode and Cherwell. Somerton was the
next village we sighted; like Aynho and the rest of the villages
along the river, it is set on hi^ ground above flood level, and the
canal wharf lies immediately at the foot of the sloping street.
Here we stopped for tea before moving on over Heyford Common,
to moor at ni^tfall in perfect surroundings by Heyford Mill
Lock. The evening was brilliantly clear, and the ranks of pollard
willows which marched westwards across the meadows were
silhouetted with a startling clarity that was almost unreal against
the sunset’s afterglow. Eastwards we were sheltered by a steq)
bank, at the top of which, screened by a Mt of tall elms, lay the
village of Upper Heyford.

The weather was still brilliant the next morning when we cast
off and traversed the lovely tree-bordered pound that extends
from Heyford Mill through Lower Heyford to Dashwood Lock.
At Northbrook, a lonely lock lost amid the trees by the river
rnar^, we paused for a mid-morning cup of coffee before con-
tinuing on our way through Kirtlington woods, past the secluded
‘Pigeons’ inn to Gibraltar Lock, at the tail of which we entered the
Cherwell. The ensuing river section is a mile long, and abounds
in acute turns ; moreover, the current is at aU times swift, so that in
times of flood it often becomes unnavigable. On this accoimt
tiraffic is frequently held up, so that it would seem that the

SPRING AT HAMPTON GAY 191

engineers showed some lack of foresight in not cutting an in-
dependent course throughout.

We left the river’s devious windings at Weir, an unusual type
of flood-lock vith a diamond-shaped chamber. The precise
reason for its odd construction was not clear, nor could the lock-
keeper enlighten us, since, for all its apparent size, it could
accommodate only one narrow boat at a time. When we had
locked through and rounded the bend beyond the lock tail we
sifted the grey church and manor house of Shipton-on-Cherwell
overpeering the water from their vantage on the high right bank,
while across the river not a quarter of a mile away stood the tiny
chapel of Hampton Gay, dreaming alone in the fields, with only a
grass pathway to its door. In the golden evening light &e combina-
tion of grey buildings, green meadows, tall trees and still, sky-
reflecting water made a picture so entrancing that we forthwith
decided to journey no farther, and moored ‘Cressy’ where the dry-
wall of SMpton churchyard sloped down to the water’s edge.
When I stopped her engine, silence fell swiftly, no breath-bating
hush of suspense, but a soundless calm that seemed to lap as
closely about us as the water round our hull and which brought
with it a sense of peace unassailable and timeless.

The willows were casting long fingers of shadow when we walked
across the meadows and over the river footbridge to Hampton
Gay. The morrow would bring us within sight of the many spires
and towers of Oxford, the end for a time of four hundred miles
of this slow voyaging. What could be better, tiien, I thought, than
m this quiet place to bring the story of our journey to a close, since
such a wandering tale should have no ending. The many miles we
had covered had only served to bring nearer the tempting prospects
of new waterways to explore and of others to revisit. The lures of
the Welsh Canal, the Kennet and Avon, the Fenlands, and the
Rivers Sevan, Avon, Nene and Thames, to mention only a few,
were all the stronger for the coming of another spring. Yet
because the world of men must needs devote themselves to evil
things in a senseless struggle for power, aU must remain unsure, the
future be unknown and beauty go a-beggmg. It was with these
somewhat melancholy thoughts that we passed the chapel and
came upon tiie ruined manor of Hampton Gay, where we found
a symbol of new promise.

According to an old countryman whom we met trudging home-
ward over the Adds, the old house was fired by its last unscrupulous

NARROW BOAT

192

occupant with the object of collecting the insurance money, a
plot which brou^t about his downfall. Harsh-crying jackdaws
had made their habitation in the towering chinmey-stacks, crumb-
ling stone mullions gaped in ruin and the charred fragments of
great beams still lay where they had fallen in the nettles that grew
Slickly within the walls. Yet nature’s tireless growth had covered
this sorry monument of human greed and violence with a kindly
cloak of trees, whose branches swept the walls on every side.
As though this were not enough, upon the floor of the wood
the unfailing promise of spring had been fulfilled in all its match-
less purity, for about the tree-boles and the scarred walls surged a
white wave of snowdrops starred with yellow aconite. Ugliness
had been defeated by an irrepressible beauty.

As we walked back towards Shipton the last of the sunlight was
glowing on the old grey stones of the church tower. Below, a dim
blue shape in the deep twilight of the trees, we could see our
boat.

CONCLUSION

The joTimey which this book describes occupied the fateful sum-
mer and winter of 1939-40. Since then the war, which at that time
still seemed a nightmare from which we would soon awaken, has
spread desolation across the world and has brought many chang«i
to England. For the present, at aU events, the neglected fields
have come to life because the town has once more been made
aware of its ultimate dependence upon the land. The pledge has
been given that never again will the country be allowed to fall to
ruin, and it is the duty of all who hold the welfare of that country
dear to ensure that this pledge is honoured. For all too often in
time of tribulation nations, like individuals, are eager to admit
past faults and to make good resolutions for the future, but
equally ready to forget them when their adversities are over.

If the country is in danger of future neglect on the one hand, it
is equally in danger of exploitation on the other. Today the talk
is all of planning, and there are many who would plan and control
the country from the town. The fact that this is seriously con-
templated is a measure of the gulf which divides the countryman
from the urban philosopher. For the land is not a food factory,
to be exploited by large Mghly mechanised ranches run by business
men and mechanics, and the ruinous effect on fertility of this con-
ception of cash-crop farming is already evident in other countries.
The land needs husbandmen, not machines and their slaves; it
offers us a way of life, not a source of profit

There are two courses open to each man in his brief lifetime:
either he can seek the good life, or he can struggje for wealth and
power; the former emphasises spiritual, the latter material values.
After the war the choice will still be ours, and if it be the good
life, the land awaits our coming. If, on the other hand, we con-
tinue to pursue our material obsession, the urban bureaucrats are
ready to plan our lives from cradle to grave and we shall become
the slaves of a scientific ‘Technocracy’.

Although the war has deq)ened the conviction that there is
something seriously wrong with our civilisation, we have become
N 193

NARROW BOAT

194

SO besotted with the idea of the inevitability of scientific progress
that we are contemplating plunging even deeper into the mire of
mechanised living, in the tragic belief that, despite the evidence
of the past one hundred and fifty years, it is still the way to
Utopia. In fact, to follow this road is to sacrifice the individuality
and creative ability of man on the altar of material prosperity.
The factories and mean streets of our industrial cities may repre-
sent the wealtih of England, but the greatness of the English tradi-
tion was bom of our fields and villages, and is dying with the
peasant, the yeoman and the craftsman. It was the desire to dis-
cover whether this tradition vms in fact a living force, or merely
the nostalgic ‘remembrance of things past’, which led me to build
my home and to travel about England in the way I have tried to
desoibe. I argued that the canals belonged to a past when that
tradition, thou^ threatened, was still vital, and that it was from
that past that I should view the present in order to see it in its
proper perspective. The result of my experiment has not merely
proved to me the validity of an older way of life, it has left me
appalled at the loss which our dvilisation ^ sustained. The men
I have been privileged to meet, some of whom I have mentioned
in these pages, revealed more eloquently than any words of mine
a way of life, which was the antithesis of the stereotyped and root-
less existence of twentieth-century ‘economic man’, and it is the
spirit of which these men are the imthinking guardians which must
not be permitted to perish from the earth. The restoration of that
spirit does not involve, as many suppose, a reactionary ‘back-to-
nature’ process, but simply the adoption of the aim of the good
life. Controlled by such a principle, science, of which the machine
is the symbol, would become a slave instead of a master, a com-
plement to, rather than a substitute for, the creative ability of man.

The future of the English Canals, which axe the particular
vehide of this book, depends no less &an that of the countryside
on the order which we build after the war. At present the prospects
axe not bri^t, for despite the fuel and rubber crisis and much
propaganda to the contrary, the waterways are still the victims of
vested interest, some still lying idle, others handling less than their
pre-war traffic, hi a sodety framed to cherish our national heritage
the canals can play thdr part not only as a means of transport and
employmeat, but as part of an efficient system of land drainage and
a source of beauty and pleasure. But if the canals are left to the
merdes of economists and sdentific planners, before many years

CONCLUSION

195

are past the last of them will become a weedy, stagnant ditch, and
the bri^t boats will rot at the wharves, to live on only in old
men’s memories. It is because I fear that this may happen that I
have made this record of them.

Not only have these waterways introduced me to the peasant
and the craftsman, but they have recaptured for me that sense of
place which swift transport, standardisation and ever more cen-
tralised urban government are doing their best to destroy. It is
this sense of place or genius loci, as it has been called, which is the
countryman’s birthright, and which was once made manifest by
him in his use of local materials, in his speech, song and story, and
in coimtless other intimate ways which faithfully reflected the
character of the region of his birtii. It is an essence not easy to
capture, and still more difficult to translate into words, although
I have attempted to convey something of its changing quality
which I perceived as we moved through the Midland Shires.

That journey which I have recorded here did not end with this
book. From Oxford, ‘Cressy’ moved down Thames, and so by
Kennet into the Wiltshire Downs. Today she lies at the summit
of the great flight of locks which climbs from Severn on to the
watershed which divides that river from Avon and her tributaries
Arrow and Alne. As I write I look from my window across the
broad vale of Severn to the Abberley Hills above the Teme, to the
dark slopes of Wyre and beyond to the high summits of Titterstone
Qee and Abdon Burf. And as I gaze there come into my mind the
lines of Sir Arthur QuUler-Couch, who from Eckington Bridge
saw this same green heart of England and wrote : —

'Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept
Avon from Naseby Field to Severn Ham;

And Evesham’s dedicated stones have stqip’d
Down to the dust with Montfort’s oriflamme.

Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower
Abides; but yet these eloquent grooves remain.

Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour
By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes.

E’en so shall man turn back from violent hopes
To Adam’s cheer, and toil with spade again.’

CRESSY’

CABIN PLAN

Key

1. Sliding hatch. 16. Coal stove.

2. Foie hatdi deck. 17. Easy chairs.

3. Filler of drinking-water tank. 18. Bookshelves and writing-desk.

4. Fore dedc. 19. Spring berth.

5. Hatches to coal-bunkers. 20. Folding bedside table.

6. Berths with linen-chests under. 21. Dressing-table.

7. Folding dining-table. 22, Hanging wardrobe.

8. Guest’s wardrobe. 23. Bath and folding wash-basin.

9. Crockery shelves and cupboard. 24. Independent boiler.

10. Kitchm table with drawers under. 25. Chemical closet

11. Water tank with heater under, 26. Workbench with shelves over.

, supplied by hand pump. 27. Petrol tank.

12. Sink. 28. ParafSn tank.

13. Draining board with store shelves 29. Hatch to aft hold.

under. 30. Engine casing and controls.

14. Two-burner cooking stove. 31. Deck raOs.

15. Plate rack. 31 Tiller.

196

APPENDIX I

This is not a technical book, but for the benefit of those who may
have more than a passing interest in the subject these few notes
may be of value.

(1) The Boat, ‘Cressy’ is a Shropshire Union Canal narrow boat,
70 ft. in length by 7 ft. beam, with an average draught of 1 ft.
6 ins. Originally a horse-drawn ‘fly-boat’, when converted she
was fitted with a ‘Model T Ford marine conversion which utilises
the original epicyclic gearbox as a marine reverse gear. This unit
is mounted at deck level, driving the propeUor shaft by a double
chain, an unusual arrangement which renders the engine very
accessible for overhaul, sump draining and similar jobs. An
engine-driven pump draws water through a sea-cock for cooling
purposes. This is normally discharged overside through the ex-
haust pipe, but by closing a stop valve it may be diverted into the
large roof-tank which supplies bath-water. By means of a two-
way tap on the suction side this pump also extracts the bilge-
water.

A battery and dynamo supply current for starting, also for
lighting throughout the boat There is a roomy hold under the
aft deck where fuel, lubricating oil, tools, etc., are stored, while
above deck against the aft cabin bulkhead are mounted petrol and
paraffin tanks holding six and twenty-five gallons respectively. In
addition to supplying the engine throu^ a vaporiser, the latter
fuel was chosen for all cooking, water-heating and additional
lighting pmposes because it is so readily obtainable even in the
most remote village.

The aft doors and sliding hatchway give access by steps to a
small workshop and storeroom, where are shelves for sundry
stores such as polishes, etc., hanging space for overcoats, and a
workbench with vise and tool racks.

Next comes the bathroom. So that the bath waste should drain
over-side, it was necessary to mount it somewhat higher than
usual, and it has therefore been encased, so that the space beneath
it coiild be utilised to form two roomy cupboards with flush-fitting
doors. A wash-basin lets down from the wall to rest on the sides
of the bath, and being hinged after the fashion of a farm gate, it
can then be slid under the bath-taps. This basin drains via the

197

NARROW BOAT

198

bath-waste. Copper pipes connect the bath-taps to the roof tank
and to an independent boiler, which, fired by a single paraflSn
burner of Optimus type, provides sulOfident hot water for a bath
in an hour from lighting up. The tank above has sufl&cient capacity
for five full baths, and its top is detachable for cleaning purposes.
Hanging cupboards, a mirror and towel rail complete the bath-
room fittings, while the chemical closet adjoins.

The stateroom which next follows has a recessed hanging ward-
robe with shoe-racks beneath concealed by a curtain, and a glass-
topped dressing-table with shelves below and mirror over. There
is also a three-quarter-length mirror on the communicating door
to the bathroom. The box-spring double berth has a cupboard
mounted on the wall over the head, and space for luggage beneath.
There are two roof ventilators, while light is provided by three
windows and electric lights over bed and dressing-table. A folding
bedside table lets down from the wall.

The sitting-cabin, which is the largest in the boat, is situated
amidships and is lighted by six windows, one of these being very
large, extending almost from roof to gunwale. This has two case-
ments which open outwards to fold flat against the cabin sides.
All the otiier windows in the boat slide open on runners, otherwise
they are liable, when open, to foul lock sides or bridges. The aft
bulkhead of this cabin is occupied entirely by bookshelves, with
which is incorporated a folding writing-desk. The only other fix-
tures are a small seat built into the angle of the opposite bulk-
head, and the stove, which is of the ‘Cozy’ open-foe type. The
floor is carpeted with dark brown pile, and foere are two easy
chairs.

The galley adjoining has, upon one side of the central gangway,
a two-burner cooking stove with plate-rack and shelving over,
and alongside it a kitchen table with three deep drawers below.
The sink opposite is fitted with a detachable draining board, which
rests on the table top of a large store cupboard. On the waU above
hangs a plate drying-rack. Opposite this, with tap projecting over
the sink, stands a small round water-tank, which is supplied with
water by a semi-rotary hand pump moimted on the bulkhead. A
single-burner stove stands on a shelf beneath this tank, and thus
conveniently provides hot water for washing up. The sink, of
course, drains into the canal. Numerous shelves for saucepans,
cannisters and jars of spice or herbs complete the equipment.

Lastly comes the fore-cabin, which serves tihe dual purpose of

APPENDIX

199

dining-saloon and spare twin-berth sleeping-cabin. The two berths
are built in the form of chests to contain linen, rugs and blankets.
When the cabin is in use for meals the central portion of one
berth folds back upon itself, and between the two separate seats
thus formed the dining-table folds down from the wall above.
Three people can comfortably sit at this table; in the event of a
larger party, a folding table is used, set lengthwise between the
two berths. At the head of one berth diere are shelves for crockery,
with a cupboard below for glasses and bottles, by the other a
hanging wardrobe, dressing-table and cupboard for the use of
guests, these being concealed by flush fitting doors when not in use.

Double doors open on to the fore deck in which are two hatches
giving access to the coal bunkers beneath, which hold five hundred-
weight. A ladder communicates with the cabin roof and a small
door opens into the fore peak, which is used as a larder and store-
room. On one side it contains a large meat-safe, on the other
a fifteen-gallon drinking-water tank with filler cap projecting
through the deck, and tap conveniently set over the well-deck.

The headroom in the cabins is approximately six feetthree inches,
reduced by eight inches in the bathroom and workshop, owing to
the floor being raised to make room for four tons of metal ballast.
This is necessary in order to bring propellor and rudder well
beneath the surface, an essential point if a boat is to travel and
‘swim’ weU.

The dimensions of the cabins may be said to be the maxiTmim
which can confidently be taken anywhere on the canal system
without fear of fouling. The ‘tumble home’ of the cabin walls con-
forms to the contour of the canal bridges, and only the roof-tank
approaches the safe limit of headroom. This latter, however, was
purposely made readily detachable.

Speed averages approximately three to three and a half miles
per hour in still water, but depends largely on the breadth and
depth of the channel In a very narrow channel it is largely
liinited by the speed with which the water, forced aside by the
bows, can pass the hull. Fuel consumption averages one gallon
per hour, but this again varies considerably with conditions
encountered.

(2) Equipment. We carried with us the following essential equip-
ment: two shafts or boat-hooks on deck, one long and one short
Two thirty-foot cotton mooring fines fore and aft, also additional
lines stowed in hold. One sin^e purchase tackle for emergency

NARROW BOAT

200

use in the event of our running very heavily aground. One ten-
foot gang plank— most essential on canals with shallow margins.
One rope bow fender to prevent damage when entering locks.
Mooring spikes for use when no bollards or convenient tree
stumps were available for mooring. Four lock windlasses to suit
the different sizes of paddle spindles to be met with on various
canal systems. Two large-size funnels for easy filling of paraflin
and drinking-water tanks. A hand bilge-pump of the standard
pattern found on the canals.

Drums and cans for replenishing fuel and water.

Rag mop for swabbing decks and cabin-work.

‘Bradshaw’s Guide to the Canals and Navigable Rivers of
En^and and Wales’.

Inch-to-the-Mile Ordnance Survey maps of every district
covered.

(3) Tolls. These vary to such an extent that it is almost im-
possible to give any average figure of expense. As an instance Of
this the following charges may be quoted. Grand Union Canal,
Braunston to Trent Junction, seventy nules, £2 IO 5 , Trent and
Mersey Canal, Derwent Mouth to Middlewich, seventy-six miles,
18^. Shropshire Union Canal, Middlewich to Autherley, fifty-two
miles, 1 1 r. Birmingham Canal (Coventry Canal Section), Whitting-
ton Brook to Fazeley, five miles, 10^. 6d.

In theory a boat pays principally for the single lock of water
which it uses on its passage through a canal, irrespective of the
number of locks encountered. When it is pointed out, however,
that the five miles on the Birmingham Canal mentioned above
include no locks, it will be realised that it is impossible for the
stranger to assess what any given toll is Ukely to be.

No specific time limit is laid down for a given journey, and
charges for prolonged mooring are usually negligible and fixed
by annual a^eament with the company concerned. Locks must
almost invariably be worked by the boat’s crew, but the canal folk
are unfailingly helpful in case of difficulty, provided full credit is
^ven to them for knowledge and experience. Rightly, they have
little time for the amateur boatman who airs his knowledge, since
tifiey realise full well that the experience of a life-time cannot be
acquired in a few weeks’ pleasure cruising.

GLOSSARY

(For the desfinition of many of the terms given below I am

indebted to ‘Bradshaw’s Guide to the Canals and Navigable

Rivers of England and Wales* by the late Mr. Rodolph de Sails.)

Animak. — boatman’s name for donkeys, which until recently
were much in use for towing purposes, particularly on the canals
tributary to the River Severn, a pair of them taking the place
of one horse.

Balance Beam or Balance. — The beam projecting from a lock gate
which balances its weight, and by pushing against which the
gate is opened or closed.

Barge. — K term including a variety of vessels, botihi sailing and
non-sailing, in use for canal or river traffic, whose beam is
approximately twice that of a narrow boat. The name ‘barge’
is often applied erroneously to all vessels carrying goods on a
canal or river, whether barge, wide boat, narrow boat, lighter
or any other vessel.

Blow, to. — To give warning when approaching a bridge-hole or
other narrow place where the view ahead is restricted and there
is therrfore a danger of collision. Motor-boats sound sirens of
different types, while captains of horse-boats either crack their
whips or blow a hom of polished brass which is kept in the
cabin within reach of the steerer.

Bobbins. — Short, hollow wooden rollers, several of which are
usually threaded on each of the traces of horses engaged in
towing, to prevent the traces chafing. They are often painted
in bright colours.

Bow Hauling. — ^Hauling by men, in distinction from the more
usual method of hauling by horses. When a motor-boat and
butty are working through a flight of narrow locks, the tow-line
is usually detached and the butty bow hauled.

Breast or Mitre Post. — Of a lock gate, the vertical post of the gate
farthest from its hanging; where the gates are in pairs, the two
breasts are usually mitred to bed against each other when shut.

Bridge Hole. — ^The narrow channel beneath an over-bridge.

Butty Boat. — A boat working in company with another boat. The
term is generally applied to a boat towed by a motor-boat.

201

NARROW BOAT

202

Bye Trader.— h tenn used to designate any trader on a canal
other than the canal company itself when carriers. All canal
companies are not carriers themselves, some merely providing
the water-way and taking toll for its use.

Chatico.—k mixture of tar, cow-hair and horse-dung made hot,
used for dressing the timbers of wooden boats.

Compartment JSoat.— Commonly called a ‘Tom Pudding’, a type
of boat in use on the Aire and Calder Navigation, which is
worked in trains with other similar boats.

Cratches.— The supports of the gang-planks of a narrow boat at
the fore end of the boat. The deck cratch is placed at the point
where the fore deck terminates and the cargo space begins, the
false cratch being situated a short distance abaft the deck cratch.
Cut.—k boatman’s name for canal, so applied on account of its
artificially cut channel, as distinguished from the natural
channel of a river.

Day Boats.— Boais without cabins, used in working short-distance
traffic and on which there is no sleeping accommodation. Also
called open boats.

Doors.— A Fen term for gates ; in the Fens all lock gates are called
sluice doors.

Draw.— To draw a paddle, slacker, slat, weir or staunch is to open
it in order to allow the water to escape. The reverse is to
‘lower’, ‘drop’ or ‘shut in’, or in the case of a staunch to ‘set’.
Dydle (Norfolk ). — ^To dredge, to clean out.

Flash or Flush.— A body of accumulated water suddenly released,
used for the purpose of assisting navigation on river.

Flash (Cheshire).— Ad. inland lake caused by subsidence of the
groxmd due to salt-mining.

Flat . — ^A Mersey flat is a type of vessel which conducts the bulk
of the traffic on that river and neighbouring canals. A black
flat is a larger vessel trading between Liverpool and the River
Weava:. The term ‘flat’ is also used to describe the shallow
punts or rafts used by lock-keqpers or lengthmen for canal
maintenance.

JFfy Originally described a horse-boat which, using relays
of horses, travell^ day and ni^t. The term now applies to
any type of boat so travelling. A boatman so engag^ is said
to be ‘working fly’.

Freshet . — ^An increase in the flow of a river due to rain.

Gang.— The number of Fen lifters or Riva: Stour (Suffolk)
lighters chained together for travelling. In the case of Fen

GLOSSARY 203

lifters the niunber in a gang is five, on the River Stour always
two.

Gang Planks . — ^Removable planks used to afford a means of pass-
ing from one end of a narrow boat to the other ; when in place
thqr run from the top of the cabin aft to the deck cratch for-
ward, being supported in between by upright supports called
stands. These stands, which are also removable, fit into mortices
in the stretchers and boat’s floor, and have the gang-planks
tightly lashed down to them.

Gauging . — ^The means of ascertaining by the draught of a vessel
the wei^t of cargo on board for the purpose of taking tolls.
The first gauging of canal boats is carried out at a weigh-dock,
where particulars of the boat’s draught are taken when empty,
and when fully loaded, and at intermediate points, such as at.
every ton of loading. The boat is loaded with weights kept for
the purpose, which are lifted in and out by cranes; the result
arrived at is then either transferred to graduated scales fixed to
the boat’s sides, which can be read at any time, or the par-
ticulars of each vessel are furnished to each toll office in a book,
from which, on gauging the hnmersion of the boat, the number
of tons on board can be at once ascertained. The usual method
of gauging a boat for immersion is to take what is called the
‘dry inches’ — ^that is, the freeboard, at four points, at one point
each side near tiiie bow and at one point each side near the
stern. This is done by an instrument consisting of a float in a
tube, having a bracket projecting from the side of the tube.
The bracket is rested on ffie boat’s gunwale, and the float
indicates the number of inches between that and the level of
the water in the canal.

Give Way, to . — To concede the right of passage to another boat—
e.g., empty boats usually give way to loaded, motors to horse-
boats. The actual passing rule varies on different water-ways,
keeping to the ri^t being now most general, but a motor-boat
always gives a horse-boat the] tow-path side, for obvious
reasons.

Gongoozler . — An idle and inquisitive person who stands staring
for prolonged periods at anything out of the conunon. This
word is believed to have its origin in the Lake District

Handspike.— A bar of wood used as a lever ; one some of the old-
fashioned locks a handspike was required for working the lock
paddles instead of rack and pinion gears. It is also used for
working the anchor chain roller on river barges.

NARROW BOAT

204

Hone (Norfolk) Higher. — ‘The water is hane today.’ That is:
The water is higher today.

Haling Way.— A Fen term; a towing-path.

Heel Post.— The vertical post of a lock gate nearest to its hanging,
and the axis on which the gate turns, being rounded at the back
to fit into the hollow quoin, in which it partially revolves.

Hold in. Hold out. — Boatmen’s terms used as directions for steer-
ing, having reference to the position of the towing-path. ‘Hold
in’ means hold the boat in to the towing-path side of the canal,
and vice versa.

Hollow Quoin. — The recess into which the heel post of a lock gate
is fitted, and in which it partially revolves when being opened
and closed.

Horse Boca. — Strictly speaking, a small open boat for ferrying
over towing horses from one side of a river to the other where
no bridge is available. In common use in the Fen district,
where it is towed astern of a gang of lighters. One is also kept
for use at Trent Junction to ferry horses from the mouth of the
River Soar over the Trent to the junction of the Erewash Canal.
Of recent years the term has come to be loosely used to describe
any horse-drawn narrow boat, as distinct from motor craft.

Horse Marines (Yorkshire). — ^Men who contract for the haulage
of vessels by horses on die canals.

House lighter.— A Fen term, used to denote a lighter provided
with a cabin.

Invert.— Axi inverted arch of brickwork or masonry, used chiefly
as regards canal work to form the bottom of locks and tuimels
in cases where lateral or upward pressure has to be sustained.

Josher . — term used by boatmen to signify a boat belonging to
Fellows Morton and Clayton, Ltd., Canal Carriers, the Chris-
tian name of the late Mr. Fdlows having been Joshua.

Keb. — ^An iron rake used for fishing up coal or other articles from
the bottom of a canal. Boatmen may often be seen fishing for
coal in this way at coal wharves.

Keel. — A type of boat in extensive use on the Yorkshire rivers and
canals, 1h^ measure approximately 58 ft. long by 14 ft. beam.

Land Water.— A term used to denote the water in a river brought
down from up country, in distinction from the water set up by
the flood-tide from seawards.

Legging. — A method used to propel horsenlrawn boats through
timnels which have no towing-path, the boatman pushing with
his feet against the tunnel walls. At one time leggers could be

GLOSSARY

205

hired at most of the longer txmnels, notably Standedge on the
Huddersfield Narrow Canal, 5,456 yds. long, which is the
longest in England, and Sapperton on the old Thames and
Severn Canal, 3,808 yds.

Lengthman. — canal company’s employee in charge of a par-
ticular section or length of water-way.

Let Off. — ^An appliance for getting rid of some of the water from
a canal in rainy weather so that it may not overflow its banks.
Originally a trap-door sluice set in the bottom of the canal and
worked by a chain, but now resembling the ordinary lock paddle.

Level. — ^When two reaches of water, one on each side of a lock- or
weir, from the flow of the tide or other cause become level, a
level is said to be made.

Lighter. — ^A term including a variety of vessels in use on the Fens,
the Thames, the River Stour (Suffolk) and the Bridgwater
Canal. On an average they measme 42 ft. in length by 10 ft.
beam, but Thames Lighters equal barges in size, differing from
them in the respect that they have ‘swim ends’ — i.e., flat, sloping
ends like a punt.

Lock, to. — ^To work a vessel through a lock.

Loodel. — ^A staff used to form a vertical extension of the tiller of
a barge for flie purpose of steering when loaded with hi^ loads,
such as hay or straw. The loodel, when required, is inserted in
a mortice in the fore end of the tiller.

Narrow Boat. — ^A craft measuring approximately 70 ft. long by 7 ft.
beam, extensively used throughout the Midland canal system.
Sometimes also referred to as a Monkey Boat or Long Boat.

Nip (River Trent). — A narrow place.

Ntanber Ones . — ^Boats owned by the boatmen who work them, and
who are consequently their own masters, in distinction from
boats owned by a firm or company.

Paddle. — A sluice valve, by opening or closing which the watw
can either be allowed to pass or be retained.

Sometimes also called a slacker or dough. Ground paddles
or jack doughs are those that admit water to the lock by cul-
verts built in the ground, as distinct from the Fly Paddles,
Ranters or Flashers, which are fitted to the gates themselves.

Pen (a Lock Pen).— A Fen term; a lock chamber. Also ‘to pen’,
to lock a vessel — e.g., ‘A narrow boat is too long to pen at
Stanground’.

Pound. — ^The stretch of water on a canal between two locks.

Quant (Norfolk).— A pole or shaft.

NARROW BOAT

206

Rcan's Head.— The boatman’s name for the wooden rudder post
of a narrow boat; usually it is bound with pipe-clayed Turk’s-
head knots, and occasionally decorated with a horse’s tail.

JUmers . — The posts in the removable portions of weirs on the
Upper Thames against which the weir paddles are placed.

Roding.—A Fen term ; cutting rushes or reeds in a river, or cotting
if they are uprooted.

Roving Bridge or Turnover Bridge. — A bridge carrying a towing-
path from one side of a canal to the other.

Screw. — boatman’s term for any boat driven by a screw pro-
peller.

Set, to . — ^To set a staunch is to close it so that the water may
accumulate.

Shaft, to.—lo propel a boat through a tunnel with a long shaft
as an alternative to legging.

Sill . — Of a lock. The bar of masonry below water against which
the bottom of the lock gates rests when closed.

Staircase Locks . — ^Also called risers. A flight or series of locks so
arranged that the top gate or gates of each lock except the
highest also form the bottom gate or gates of the lock above.
The best example of a staircase in England is the flight of five
at Singly on the Leeds and liverpool Canal.

Sttdth {Midlands and North). — coi-loading wharf. In Norfolk
the word refers to a general wharf.

Stands . — ^The intermediate supports for the gang-planks of a
narrow boat.

Stank . — ^A temporary water-tight dam constructed of piling from
which the water can be pumped to enable below-water repairs
to be carried out. The word is also used as a verb — e.g., ‘to
stank off’.

Stamch or Navigation Weir . — ^An appliance for overcoming change
of level in a navigable river. It consists of a weir provided with
a gate through which vessels may pass, and which is equipped
with paddles like a lock gate, l^en proceeding upstream,
vessels close the gate behind them and wait until sujEfldent depth
of water has accumulated in the reach above the gate to allow
them to proceed. Travelling downstream the procedure is re-
versed. This is naturally a very slow business, but examples
are still in use in the Fen district and at Pershore and Crop-
thome on the Warwickshire Avon.

Stemmed, Stemmed tq>. — ^The boatman’s term for r unning aground
on a mud-bank.

GLOSSARY

207

Stop . — A stop or stop lock is generally a gate or a lock erected at
the junction of one canal with anotiher, to prevent loss of water
from one to the other if necessary, normally there being little
or no change of level. There is generally a toll office at a stop
lock where cargoes are declared and gauged and tolls paid.

Stop Gates . — ^They answer the same purpose as stop grooves and
planks, but are made in the form of lock gates, and are always
kept open except when required for use. In long canal pounds
it is usual for stop gates to be fitted at intervals, so that in the
event of a leak or burst the escape of water may be confined
to that portion of the pound between two gates.

Stop Grooves . — ^Vertical grooves, usually provided at the head and
tail of a lock and in other situations where under-water repairs
may have to be carried out, into which stop planks can be
inserted to form a temporary dam or stank.

Stoppage . — A temporary closing of a waterway for repairs.

Stud . — ^The tee-headed pin fitted on bow and stem of a narrow
boat to which mooring fines are attached. The towing stud of
a narrow boat is C-shaped, and is fitted to the top of a tall
post called the mast.

Summit Level .— highest pound of water in a canal, and there-
fore the pound into which the main supply of water for working
the locks has to be delivered. Consequently, in dry weather it
is the first to be affected as regards deficiency of navigable
depth. The hipest summit level in England is that of the
Huddersfidd Narrow Canal, which is miles long from Diggle
to Marsden, and is 644 ft. 9 ins. above Ordnance Datum. For
31^ miles of this summit level the course of the canal is through
Standedge Tunnel.

Sweep . — ^A large oar.

5wim, to.—h. boat fight in drau^t and which answers readily to
the helm is described by boatmen as ‘a good swimmer’, or may
be said to ‘swim well’.

Tackle.— k boatman’s name for the harness of a boat horse.

Tail {of a tocfc).— That portion immediately below the bottom
gates. The equivalent portion above the top gates is called the
head.

Toll.— lbs charge payable by a trader for the use of a canal.

Towing PatA.— The path beside a canal for the use of ^wing
horses, also called in different districts haling path or ha^ way.

Trow.—k type of vessel in use on the River Severn ; they measure
approximately 70 ft. long by 17 ft. beam.

208

NARROW BOAT

Tub Small box boats carrying from three to five tons,

once used in Shropshire and on &e Bude canal in Cornwall

Turns, Waiting Turns or Working Turns . — system often adopted
in dry weather in order to make the utmost use of the water.
At any lock a boat must wait for the arrival of another coming
in the opposite direction, thus making sure that the maximnni
of traflBic is passed for the water consumed.

Tying Point . — ^The shallowest point in a navigation. For instance,
the bottom sill of Cranfleet Lock, better known to boatmen as
Old Sal’s Lock, was at one time the tying point on the river
Trent between Nottingham and the junction of the Erewash
Canal; that is to say, any vessel that could float over this sill
could find enough water everywhere else between these places.

Wash Lands or Washes . — ^Lands adjoining a river, so embanked
that the river can overflow on to them when in flood.

Wherry.— The name given to the sailing vessels which trade over
the rivers Bure, Yare and Waveney and their connecting dykes
and broads; they vary considarably, from a 12-ton boat about
35 ft. long by 9 ft. beam to the ‘Wonder’ of Norwich, 65 ft.
long by 19 ft. beam.

Wide Boat.— A type of boat in use on canals having wide locks.
It is of a size between the narrow boat and tbe barge, 70 ft. long
by 10 to 1 1 ft. beam. Such craft navigate the Grand Union Canal
from London as far north as Berkhampstead. They are not used
for longer distances, since they do not travel so well as a narrow
motor boat and butty, on account of their broader beam.

Wind, to . — ^To wind a boat is to turn a boat round.

Winding Place, Winding Hole, Winning Place or Winning Hole . —
A wide place in a canal provided for the purpose of turning a
boat round.

Windlass.— Ako called in some districts a crank, is a handle or
key for opening and closing lock paddles, shaped in the form
of the letter L, and having a square socket at one end to fit
on the square of the spindle operating the paddle gear.

Wings.— Fht pieces of board rigged for the purpose of legging in
tunnek when the tunnel is too wide to permit of the loggers
reaching the side walls with their feet from the boat’s deck. A
fuUy equipped narrow boat would carry two pairs of wings, a
pair of ‘narrow-cut wings’ and a pair of ‘broad-cut wings’ — ^that
is, a pair of wings suitable for the full-size tunnels of narrow boat
canals, and also a pair suitable for the tunnels of barge canals.

INDEX OF NAMES AND PLACES

Abbots Salford Hall, 46, 47
Acton, 140, 141
Adderley, 146, 147
Aldersley Junction, 162
Ailrewas, 105, 107
Alsopp’s Brewery, 100-2
Anderton Vertical Lift, 74, 118
Anker, River, 173
Ansty, 177

Arleston House, 98, 105
Amitage, 107, 109
Arrow, river, 46

Ashby Canal (‘ Moira Cut’), 35, 175
Atherstone, 32, 173, 174
Autherley Junction, 161, 162
Audlem, 146

Avon, river, 15, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50,
70, 180, 191

Aylestone Mill, 79, 80, 82
Ajmho, 190

Bablockhythe, 184
Banbury, 16, 18, 19, 28, 38, 40, 43,
44, 52, 54, 55, 57, 75, 176, 180,
182, 183, 187, 189, 190
Banbury boatyard, 21
Banbury Church, 38, 39
Banbury market, 40, 41
Barbridge Junction, 140
Barlaston, 114

Barrow-upon-Soar, 85, 86, 87, 132
Beacon Hill, 85, 86
Beauchamp of Oxford, 34
Bedworth, 175
Beeston Crag, 131, 154, 159
Berwick Tuimel, 158
Betton Moss, 147
Betton Wood, 147, 148
Bewdley, 120
Bidford, 45, 46, 51
Birmin^iam Canal, 162, 169, 172
Birmingham & Liverpool Junction
Canal, 140, 145
Blisworth Tunnel, 67
BraOes, Upper and Lower, 18
Braunston, 63, 66, 180, 184
Bridgewater Canid (‘Duke’s Cut’),
119

Bridgnorth, 120

Brindley, James, 57, 83, 94, 95, 100,
106, 107, 115, 119, 126, 127, 128,
129, 131, 169, 178

Brinklow, 178
Broughton, 18
Broughton Castle, 43
Buckby, 65, 66, 67
‘Bull and Butcher’, the, 59, 60, 61,
70, 175, 181
Burslem, 125, 127
Burton Dassett, 56, 59
Burton-on-Trent, 100, 101

Caldon Branch Canal, 124, 127
‘Canal Tavern’, the, 96, 97
Cannock Chase, 107, 109, 162, 165,
172

Chamwood Forest, 85, 86, 92
Chartley, 108

Cherwell, river, 18, 38, 54, 187, 189,
190

Chester Canal, 140
Chesvrardine, 153
Chipping Campden, 17, 102, 142
Chipping Norton, 17
C3iirk, 14

Cholmondeston, 139, 140
Church Minshull, 132, 133, 137,
138

Churdie, Richard, 142, 143
Claydon, 55, 184
Cleevc Common, 17
Qeeve Mill, 47
Cleeve Prior, 47
Clopton Bridge, 49, 110
Compton Winyates, 42, 43
Comford, Frances, quoted, 147
Cossington, 84

Coventry Omal, 106, 162, 169, 177

Cowroast, 13

Ccanfleet Cut, 92

Crewe, 132, 133, 138, 141

Crick Tunnel, 69

Crick Wharf, 69

Cropredy, 53, 54, 55, 181

‘Cross Keys’, the, 164, 165

‘Cut End’, see Autherley Junction

Damme, Thomas, 134, 137, 156
Daneway, IS

De Blundeville, Ranulph, Earl of
Chester, 131

Delamere Forest, 131, 142
Derby Canal, 97
Derwent Mouth, 94

209

210

INDEX

Derwent, river, 93, 94
De Salis, Rodolph, 14, 158
Digbeth, 162

•DirtyFair’, 149, 150,151
Dove, river, 100
Dunsmore Heath, 180

Edge Hills, 18, 42

Ellesmere Port, 140, 141, 145, 154

Erewash Canal, 92

Essex Bridge, 110

Etruria, 124

Evenlode, river, 190

Eyton, 158

Fazeley Junction, 169, 172
Ferny Compton, 56, 181, 184
Flecker, J. E., quoted, 66
‘Flitch of Bacon’, the, 105
‘Florence*, 24, 25
‘Flower of Gloster’, 11, 15
Ford (Glos.), 154
‘Four Boat Joe’, 32
Foxton, 74, 75, 79
Foxton Inclined Plane Lift, 74
Foxton Locks, 73
Fradley, 106, 107, 169, 177
Frankton, 14

Gailey, 164
Glascote, 172
Gnosall, 159
Golden Valley, 15
Gower, Earl, 115
‘Grand Trunk’, the, 106, 124, 169
Grand Union Canal, 62, 63, 68, 70,
74, 162, 180

Great Haywood, 13, 110, 112, 113,
125, 162. 164, 166, 168, 169

Hampton Gay, 191
Handsacre, 107
Harecastle Hill, 126, 129
Harecastle Tunnel, 126, 127, 140
HarvingtonMiU,47,48
Harwood, James, 34, 37, 55
Hatherton Branch Canal, 162, 163
Hawkesbuiy Junction, 177
Hennell, Thomas, 98
Heyford, Upper and Lower, 190
Hill Morton, 180
Hone, Alfted, 34, 57, 184, 187
Hone fan%, 34, 183, 184, 186
Hopwas, \Tl
Horninglow Wharf, 100
Hnddlesford Junction, 162, 170, 172
Hurleston Junction, 140
Huslxinds Bosworth, 70, 73

Inglesham, 15
Itchen, river, 56

James, M. R., 148

Kegworth, 91

Keimet and Avon Canal, 15, 191
Kings Sutton, 189

Langley Hill, 17
Langley Mill. 32, 92
Leicester, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, 87, 170
‘Leicester Cut’ (Grand Union CanalL
68-75

Leicester market, 81
Lichfield, 170, 171, 172
Lichfield Cathedral, 170, 171, 172
Llangollen, 14, 138
Long Mynd, 14
Lougfiborough, 87, 89, 90, 91
Lower Shuckburgh, 62
Lowson Ford, 15
Lynes Bam, 17

Macclesfield Canal, 129
Maesbury, 13
Maesbury Mill, 14
Market Drayton. 147-52, 155, 159
Market Harborough, 68, 74, 75, 76,
78,81

Marston, 175
Marston Doles, 57
Me^ord, 113
Middlewich, 131

Middlewich branch of Shropshire
Union Canal (‘New Cut’), 131,
139 140

MinsliullMill, 135,136.137
Moira, 32

Montgomery, mountains of, 15
Mow Cop, 130, 131

Nantwich, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145,
146

Napton Junction, 61, 184
Napton locks, 175, 181
Napton Mill, 61

Napton-on-the-HiU, 59, 162, 175, 178
Naseby, 70

Needwood Forest, 99, 103
NeU Bridge, 190
Newbold*upon-Avon, 179, 180
Newport, 157, 159

Newport and Old Shrewsbury Canal
Brandi, 157
Newton, 15
‘Noel Arms’, 102
Norbury Junction, 157, 158

INDEX

211

Nonnanton, 91
North KUworth, 72, 73, 76
North Kilworth Wharf, 70
Norton Junction, 65, 67, 68, 70, 92
‘Number One’, 32, 34, 174, 187
Nuneaton, 32, 174, 175

‘Old Badger’, the, 134
Old Stratford Locks, 51
Owen, Nicholas, 46
Oxford, 19, 32, 138, 177, 191, 195
Orford Canal, 16, 18, 22, 34, 37, 55,
56, 59, 62. 63, 64, 75, 113, 172,
177

Peak Forest Canal, 129
PeddbrtonHiUs, 131, 132
Penk, river, 165, 166
Pont-^syllte, 14
Penkridge, 165
Pooley Hall, 173

Potteries, the, 121, 122, 125, 129, 159,
165

Preston Bagot, 15

Quomdon, 85

Radcliffe Church, 91, 92
Raddiffe-on-Soar, 91, 92
‘Red Bull Inn’, the, 129, 130
‘Red Lion’, the, 55, 181
Rennie, John, 100
‘Ringing the Bull’, 60
Rugby, 179, 180
Rugeley, 109, 112

St. Mary de Castro, Church of, 81,
82

Saddington Tunnel, 79
Salford Priors, 46
Sapperton, tunnel, 15
Savdey, 93

Severn, river, 13, 14, 15, 106, 110,
120, 191, 195

Shardlow, 94, 95, 96, 97, 112
Shelton Steel Works, 124
Shipston-on-Stour, 18
Sbipton-on-Cherwell, 191
Shropshire Tub Boat Canal, 1 57, 160,

161. 164

Shropshire Union Canal, 13, 131, 139,

140. 164

Skixmer, Joseph, 34
Smiles, Samuel, 83, 119, 120
Soar, river, 82, 83, 91, 92, 93
Somerton, 190
Sow, river, 110, 166
Stafford, 159, 166

Staffordshire and Worcestershire
Canal (‘The Stour Cut’), 106, 140,
161, 162-68, 174
Stoke Brueme, 13, 66, 67
Stoke-on-Trent, 112, 121, 122
Stone, 112, 113
Stourport, 106, 174
Stow-on-the-Wold, 17
Stratford-on-Avon, 48, 49, 50, 51
Stratford-on-Avon Canal, 15, 44, 49,
51, 52, 179

Stratford-on-Avon Memorial The-
atre, 48

Stumps Cross, 17
Sudeley, 17
Sulgrave, 43, 44
‘Sun’, the, 141
Swaldiffe, 18
‘Swan’, the, 106
Swarkestone, 97, 98, 104
Swithland, 92

Tadmarton, 18
Tame, river, 172
Taylor, Messrs. John, 87, 88, 89
Telford, Thomas, 100, 127, 131, 140
Tern, river, 152
Thames and Severn Canal, 15
Thames, river, 15, 106, 184, 191, 195
Thurston, Tranple, 11, 15, 54
Tixall, 166, 168, 174
Tooley, George, 22, 24
Tooley, Herbert, 24, 30, 37, 52, 53
Tooley, Mr., 21, 22, 24, 25, 26, 30,
44, 45, 53, 54
Totterdown, 14
Townsend of Abingdon, 34
Trench Inclined Plane Lift, 158
Trent and Mers^ Canal, 94, 118,
131, 140, 152, 168, 169
Trent, river, 91, 92, 93, 105, 107,
110, 112, 120, 125, 126, 129, 140
Trentham IMl, 115, 116
Tunstall, 125
Tyrley, 152, 154

Upper Avon Navigation, 46

Vale of the Red Horse, 17
Vale Royal, 132, 142

Wainlode, 14
Wappenshall, 158
Wardle Lock, 131
Warwick and Napton Canal, 61
Watford, 68, 69. 73
Weaver, river, 74, 120, 131, 132, 135,
139, 146

212

INDEX

Wedgewood, Josiah, 106, 124
Welford, 70
Welland, river, 73
Wells, H. G.. 124

Welsh Canal, 13, 14, 15, 138, 140, 191

Welshpool, 15

Wesley, John, 119

‘Wharf Inn’, the, 153

Wheaton Aston, 160

'V^tehurch, 150, 155

‘White City’, 34

Whixall Moss, 150

Wichnor, 104, 105

Wilts, and Berks. Canal, 15

Winchcombe, 17

Wolfamcote, 180, 181

Wolverhampton, 160, 162, 163, 165

Woodhouse, Mr., 70, 72
Woodhouse Eaves, 85
Woraster and Birmingham Cnnai

Worleston, 138
Wormlei^ton, 56, 75
Wormlei^iton Hill, 56
Wroxton, 44, 46
Wroxton Abbey, 44
Wreak, river, 84
Wrekin, the, 126, 131, 159
Wyrley and Essington Canal, 162,

Yeats, W. B., quoted, 44, 56
Yelvertoft, 70
‘Yockerton Hall’, 114

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